B  3  5t.2  saa 


10 
ui 


I'KK    i:     1  !F  I  Ki:\     (    IN' 


e  Borelette,  |lo»  1^. 


u.. 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN; 


THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


Stort/  of  Sea  and  Land  Ad  rent  are. 


BY  SYLVANUSICOBB,  JR. 


TJIK    STOIIM    riril.[)i;i:\    IX   DAN'OEH. 


t... 


<'ril(    i       UAI.l.ol      -    MOXTHJ.^      Nr.VGAZTXK 


THE  NOVELETTE. 

ENTERTAINING  STORIES  BY  STANDARD  AMERICAN  AUTHORS. 
ILLUSTBATED. 


No.  I. —The  Arkansas  Ranger,  or  Dingle  the  Backwoodsman.  A  Story  of  East  and  West.  By  Lieut.  Murray.  A  vivid 
story,  unrivaled  in  plot  and  character;- thrilling  in  marvelous  adventures. 

No.  a.  —  The  Sea  Lion,  or  The  Privateer  of  the  Penobscot.  A  Story  of  Ocean  Life.  By  Sylvanus  Cobb,  Jr.  One  of 
Cobb's  best;  occurring  during  that  fertile  period  of  adventure,  our  second  war  with  England. 

No.  J. — Marion's  Brigade,  or  The  Light  Dragoons.  A  Tale  of  the  Revolution.  By  Dr.  J.  H.  Robinson.  Among  the 
many  tales  which  our  Revolutionary  struggles  have  drawn  from  the  pen.s  of  noted  historians  and  story-tellers, 
perhajJS  none  excel  this  one  from  the  pen  of  Dr.  Robinson. 

Ifo.4.  —  Bessie  Baine,  or  the  Mormon's  Victim.  A  Tale  of  Utah.  By  M.  Quad,  of  the  Detroit  Free  Press.  In  thisgreat 
original  story,  written  expressly  for  our  establishment,  Mr.  Lewis  has  shown  up  the  whole  system  of  Mormon- 
ism,  and  all  its  terrible  aims  and  results. 

No.  5.  —The  Red  Revenger,  or  the  Pirate  King  of  the  Floridas.  A  Tale  of  the  Gulf  and  its  Islands.  By  Ned  Buntline. 
This  thrilling  tale  is  one  that  portrays  many  tragic  and  romantic  phases  of  life  at  a  period  when  deadly  conflict 
was  maintained  between  the  Spaniards  of  Cuba  and  the  desperate  pirates  who  infested  the  seas  in  its  vicinity 
some  three  centuries  ago. 

Nn.  6.  —  Orlando  Chester,  or  The  Young  Hunter  of  Virginia.  A  Story  of  Colonial  Timee.  By  Sylvanus  Cobb,  Jr.  This 
story  is  one  of  the  happiest  efforts  of  the  author,  who  has  wrought  out  a  series  of  domestic  scenes  in  private  life 
of  much  interest. 

Na  7. — The  Secret-Service  Ship,  or  the  Fall  of  San  Juan  d'Ulloa.  A  Romance  of  the  Mexican  War.  By  Capt.  Charies 
E.  Averill.  The  author  enjoyed  extraordinar>'  facilities  for  gaining  the  actual  knowledge  necessary  to  the  produc- 
tion of  this  captivating  story;  and  hence  its  truthfulness  and  excellence. 

No.  &  —Adventures  in  the  Pacific,  or  In  Chase  of  a  Wife.  By  Col.  Isaac  H.  Folger.  This  sea  stoo'  will  attract  much  at- 
tention from  residents  of  the  Cape,  and  many  old  whaling  ca|)tains  ard  crews  will  recall  its  characters  and  inci- 
dents with  lively  interest^  and  all  fond  of  adventure  will  read  it  with  relish. 

No.  9.  — Ivan  the  Serf,  or  the  Russian  and  Circassian.  A  Tale  of  Russia,  Turkey,  and  Circassia.  By  Austin  C.  Bur- 
dick.  This  is  a  well-told  and  highly  graphic  tale  of  life,  domestic  and  military,  in  Russia,  Turkey,  and 
Circassia. 

No.  10.  — The  Scout,  orthe  Sharpshooters  of  the  Revolution.  A  Stor>'  of  our  Revolutionary  Struggle.  By  Major  Ben.  Per- 
ley  Poore.  This  story  of  our  Revolutionary  struggle  is  one  of  much  interest,  and  narrates,  with  vivid,  lifelike 
effect,  sone  of  the  scenes  of  that  eventful  period. 

No.  n. —  Daiuci  t)ouiic,  or  iiic  f  louecis  01  KeuiucKy.  A  I'aie  of  Early  Western  Life.  By  Dr.  J.  H.  Robinson.  The 
I      M  terrible  experiences  of  the  early  Western  settlers,  with  their  perils  and  privations,  then  struggles,  and  their  tri- 

M  umphs,  afford  a  vivid  field  for  the  writer,  who  has  lent  himself  to  the  task  with  a  rich  result. 

No.  12. — The  King  of  the  Sea.  A  Tale  of  the  Feariess  and  Free.  By  Ned  Buntlme  This  is  one  of  the  most  popular 
romances  of  the  sea  written  by  this  well-known  author,  anS  the  characters  which  appear  are  replete  with  inter- 
est and  individuality. 

No.  13. —  The  Queen  of  the  Sea,  or  Our  Lady  of  the  Ocean.  A  Tale  of  Love  and  Chivalry.  By  Ned  Buntline.  This  is  a 
storv  of  the  buccaneers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  is  fraught  with  the  sanguinary  incidents  of  those  times. 

No.  14.— The  Heart's  Sepret,  or  The  Fortunes  of  a  Soldier.  A  Tale  of  Love  and  the  Low  Latitudes.  By  Lieutenant 
Murray.  This  is  a  very;  interesting  story  of  life  among  the  noble  ift  the  island  of  Cuba.  Its  plot  is  well  con- 
ceived and  happily  carried  out,  and  furnishes  a  skillful  series  of  evenis  of  intense  interest. 

No.  15.— The  Storm  Children,  or  The  Light-Keeper  of  the  Channel.  A  Story  of  Land  and  Sea  Adventure.  By  Sylvanus 
Cobb,  Jr.  This  story  is  one  of  great  interest.  The  principal  incidents  are  located  011  the  coast  of  England,  al- 
though the  developments  carry  the  reader  into  the  Eastern  world.     It  is  a  fine  portraiture  of  human  character. 


ANNOUNCEMENT. 

Novelette   Number   Sixteen  will  be  ready  for  publication 
about  October  16th,  containing  the  following  story: 

ONE-EYED  JAKE; 

OR,   THE    YOUNG    DRAGOON. 

A  Story  of  the  Revolutionary  Struggle.  BY  EDWARDS  KEEI.ER  OLMSTEAD. 

pirK.so  All  persons  veil  read  in  the  literature  of  our  country  arc  familiar  with  Cooper's  novel,  "  The  Spy." 
This  novel,  though  less  in  extent,  is  ha.setl  upon  scenes  like  those  employed  by  Cooper.  The  author  has 
portrayed  them  in  a  masterly  manner,  fully  eiiualling  in  intensity  the  work  of  the  great  novelist. 

A  New  Book  is  Issued  Each  Mouth. 

^  =For  .sale  at  all  periKlioal  depots  throughout  the  country,  or  sent  by  mail,  post- 
paid by  the  publisher,  on  receipt  of  1-5  cents  per  copy;  or  will  send  Four  Books  for  50  cents; 
Eight  Books,  $1.00,  all  post-paid. 

G.   W.   STUDLEY,  23  HAWL.EY  STIJFET,   BOSTON,   MASS. 


m  mm  mmih 


THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL 

A  Story  of  Sea  and  Land  Adventure. 


BY  SYLVANUSlCOBB,  JR. 


THE  STOUM   CIIILDUKN   IN   DANGER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THK   LIGHT-KEKPER  AND   HIS  mOTEGE. 

UPON  the  nothern  coast  of  Devonshire, 
some  seven  miles  to  tlie  west  of  the 
confines  of  Somerset,  there  maizes  out  into 
the  Britisli  Channel  an  abrupt  promontory, 
known  sometimes  among  seamen  as  Little 
Devon  Head.  From  its  north-eastern  point 
around  to  the  eastern  main,  the  shore  is  a 
smooth  heach,  while  the  nothern  and  west- 


ern b#rinds  are  of  ragged  rocks.  To  the 
northeast,  and  shielding  the  little  beach 
from  the  gales  that  come  up  from  the  Atlan- 
tic, a  huge  rock  reaches  out  into  the  water, 
forming  a  small,  snug  cove,  which  lies  un- 
usually quiet  with  its  still  water,  while  th. 
huge  waves  are  lashing  the  rocks  upon  tin 
opposite  side  of  the  promontory.  From  thi> 
cove  a  narrow  path  leads  up  on  to  the  gras>- 
grown  summit  of  the  headland,  and  there- 
stands  a  small,  one-story  house,  and  near  it 
is  a  beacon.     The  house  and  the  beacon,  at 


M 


52?!*^ 


2     THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


the  time  of  which  we  write,  were  the  only 
buildings  upon  the  promontory.  Back  of 
the  house,  to  the  south,  the  view  was  cut  off 
by  a  sturdy  growth  of  oak,  but  to  the  north 
the  scene  was  grand.  Almost  the  whole 
surface  of  the  British  Channel  could  be 
swept  with  the  naked  eye,  and  the  Welsh 
coast  of  Glamorgon  was  dimly  visible  in  the 
distance. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon 
of  a  day  in  early  spring.  In  the  little  cove 
just  alluded  to,  lay  a  large,  sloop-built  boat, 
with  high,  strong  bulwarks,  and  short,  stout 
spars.  Near  her  bows  stood  a  man  who 
seemed,  from  his  manner,  to  be  the  monarch 
of  all  about  him.  He  was  about  forty 
years  of  age ;  he  might  have  been  older,  and 
perhaps  younger — but  a  shrewd  calculator 
would  have  set  him  at  forty,  and  the  varia- 
tion could  not  have  been  of  much  conse- 
quence. He  was  a  strong-built  man — his 
limbs  all  rightly  shaped  and  proportioned, 
and  set  with  an  easy  firmness.  He  wore  a 
rough  drab  pea  jacket,  a  coarse  blue  vest, 
and  trowsers  of  heavy  duck,  while  his  head 
was  covered  with  a  wide-rimmed,  low,  bowl- 
crowned,  painted  hat.  His  brow  was  broad 
and  heavy,  his  eyes  black  and  large,  his  nose 
slightly  Roman  and  prominent,  and  his 
mouth  of  a  medium  size.  The  lips  were 
peculiar — being  thinner  than  seemed  to  cor- 
respond with  the  other  features,  and  seemed 
to  be  constantly  quivering — a  quivering, 
however,  almost  imperceptible,  unless  he 
was  regarded  somewhat  particularly.  His 
hair  was  short,  leaving  his  broad  brow  and 
temples  entirely  bare,  and  its  color  was  of  a 
jetty  black.  His  beard  was  of  the  same 
color,  and  it  grew  just  where  nature  had  pro- 
vided, but  it  was  neatly  trimmed  at  the  ends, 
nevertheless.  The  moustache  swept  off  in 
a  graceful  curve  on  cither  side,  leaving  the 
marked  lip  in  sight;  and  the  whole  beard 
was  what  would  have  been  thought  a"  celes- 
tial possession"  by  a  Persian  monarch. 

Such  was  Luke  Garrou,  the  light-keeper 
of  the  Devon  Head.  He  stood  now  with 
one  hand  resting  on  the  rail  of  the  boat,  and 
the  other  folded  against  his  hip.  The  hand 
(hat  rested  on   the  hip  drew  back  the  front 


of  the  long  jacket,  and  revealed  a  large  pis- 
tol that  reposed  within  the  belt  that  support- 
ed the  trowsers.  By  the  light-keeper's  side 
stood  a  stout,  steeled-fluked  grappling-hook 
and  a  heavy  axe,  implements  which  had  on 
more  than  one  occasion  helped  him  in  ren- 
dering assistance  to  those  who  needed  it. 

Luke  Garron  seemed  fitted  by  nature  to 
some  higher  sphere  than  that  in  which  we 
now  find  him,  but  he  was,  nevertheless,  just 
the  man  for  the  place  he  filled.  Fearless 
and  undaunted,  strong,  and  persevering, 
generous  and  kind-hearted,  he  had  saved 
many  a  life  from  the  grave  of  the  channel. 

While  standing  as  we  have  described  him, 
he  seemed  lost  in  reflective  thought,  but  ere 
long  he  was  aroused  by  the  appearance  of  a 
boy  who  came  running  down  the  path  from 
the  house.  The  boy  made  his  way  to 
the  boat  and  approached  the  light-keeper. 
He  was  a  lovely  child,  with  bright,  sunny 
curls,  large  blue  eyes,  and  a  smiling,  happy 
cast  of  countenance.  Not  over  eight  years 
could  have  rolled  over  his  head. 

"Ah!  what  now,  Alfred?"  asked  the 
man,  as  he  stretched  forth  his  hands  to 
greet  the  new-comer. 

"  Oh,  I've  come  to  find  you.  Old  Kepsey 
wont  talk  with  me,  and  I  feel  lonesome." 

Luke  Garron  stooped  and  kissed  the  boy's 
white  brow. 

"  Nepsey  is  a  good  woman,  but  she  doesn't 
like  to  talk,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  yes  she's  good,"  the  boy  uttered. 

"Yes;  and  she  loves  you,  too.  I  have 
just  been  thinking  about  you,  Alfred." 

"Ah!  and  what  did  you  think,  father  ? 
It  was  something  good,  I  hope." 

"  I  was  thinking  that  you  would  always  stay 
with  me,  and  be  my  child." 

"  How  can  I  help  it  ?  You  are  my  fath- 
er," the  boy  returned,  as  Luke  took  him  up 
in  his  stout  arms.  "  You  saved  my  life 
from  the  ugly  sea  when  I  was  almost 
drowned.  You've  always  been  good  to  me 
— very  good — a  great  deal  better  than  the 
old  father  I  had." 

"  I  guess  you  don't  remember  much  about 
your  other  father." 

"  Oh  yes  I  do,"  Alfred  said,  with  consid- 


THE   STOKM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


erable  animatiou.  "  I  remember  how  he 
used  to  strike  me,  and  .you  are  always  so 
good.    Oh,  I  love  you!  " 

As  the  boy  ceased  speaking,  he  placed  his 
finger  upon  Luke's  cheek  and  wiped  off  a 
large  tear  that  stood  there.  For  some  mo- 
ments the  man  was  silent.  He  kissed 
Alfred  again,  and  said: — 

"  You  must  study,  Alfred.  I  left  you  in 
the  house  with  your  book.  You  should  have 
got  your  lesson  before  you  came  out." 

"  OhI  I've  got  it  all  perfect — every  word 
of  it." 

Luke  looked  incredulous. 

''  I  have,  certainly,"  the  boy  continued, 
se^'ming'to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  his 
protector's  look. 

"  Well,  well,  I'll  hear  you  recite  it  when 
I  go  in." 

Luke  placed  the  boy  upon  his  feet,  and 
then  turned  to  haul  in  a  rope  that  was  hang- 
ing overboard. 

"Father,  just  see  those  great  big  black 
clouds  that  are  rising  over  the  rock.  I  saw 
them  before  I  came  down  here.  Suppose  we 
should  have  one  of  those  dreadful  storms  ?  " 

Luke  Garron  looked  up  over  his  head,  and 
he  saw  that  the  boy  had  spoken  the  truth. 
Heavy  clouds  were  rolling  up  into  the  heav- 
ens, and  the  waters  of  the  channel  were 
changed  to  a  sable  hue.  Little  spits  of  wind 
were  flying  in  from  the  Atlantic,  and  the 
waves  wore  gathering  tiny  crests  of  white 
foam.  Luke  took  the  boy  by  the  hand,  and 
left  the  boat.  When  he  reached  the  summit 
of  the  bluff  he  saw  that  a  real  storm  was 
brewing  in  the  west. 

"  I  trust  all  ships  may  be  well  clear  of  the 
iee  shore,"  murmured  the  light-keeper. 

Alfred  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  he 
knew,  from  the  shades  he  saw  there,  that 
danger  might  be  expected.  Ere  long  big 
raindrops  began  to  fall,  and  the  light-keeper 
and  his  protege  started  towards  the  house. 

"  Ahl  "  uttered  Luke,  "  who  is  that  going 
off  through  the  woods  ?  " 

"OhI  I  forgot,"  returned  Alfred,  as  he 
gazed  in  the  direction  pointed  out  by  Luke's 
finger.  "  It's  a  man  that  stopped  to  get  a 
drink  of  water;  but  I  didn't  think  he  would 


stop  all  this  time.  Nepsey  was  getting  the 
water  for  him  when  I  came  out." 

"  Why  does  he  go  away  just  as  it  begins 
to  rain  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he's  in  a  hurry." 

"  Maybe,"  fell  from  Garron's  lips,  and  he 
spoke  not  again  until  he  reached  the  house. 

Nepsey  was  just  beginning  to  prepare  for 
cooking  the  supper.  She  was  a  woman 
somewhere  about  fifty  years  old,  with  a  look 
of  shrewdness  about  horface;  and  though 
her  features  were  far  from  comely,  yet  they 
were  by  no  means  repulsive.  She  had  been 
a  sort  of  a  fixture  to  the  house  for  over 
twenty  years,  having  lived  there  with  her 
husband,  who  had  been  a  former  keeper  of 
the  place,  but  whose  death  had  given  the 
berth  to  the  present  incumbent. 

"  Who  was  that  man,  Nepsey,  that  called 
here  just  now  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  returned  Nepsey. 

"  ne  remained  some  time." 

"  Yes  sir." 

"  To  rest,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Y''— e — es,  sir,"  hesitatingly  answered 
the  old  woman,  as  she  arose  from  the  fire 
she  had  just  been  kindling  upon  the  hearth. 
"  He  said  he  would  rest." 

Nepsey  glanced  mysteriously  at  Alfred  as 
she  spoke,  and  then  her  gaze  was  fixed  earn- 
estly upon  her  master.  Luke  noticed  her 
manner,  and  a  dark  shade  passed  over  his 
face. 

"  What  did  he  say,  Nepsey  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  asked  me  about  Alfred." 

"  Well,  and  what  did  you  tell  him  ?  " 

The  woman  was  uneasy,  and  the  evident 
perturbation  of  her  master  increased  the  dif- 
ficulty. She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said: — 

"  I  told  him  more  than  I  ought;  but  he 
commenced  by  asking  his  questions  so  care- 
lessly, and  so  common-place  like,  that  I  did 
not  mistrust  that  he  had  any  interest  in  the 
matter." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that  he  did  have 
any  interest  in  the  matter?  "  quickly  asked 
Luke,  gazing  earnestly  into  the  woman's 
face. 

"  By  the  way  he  looked  and  acted  after  he 


4      THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OP  THE  CHANNEL. 


found  out  that  Alfred  was  not  your  child, 
but  that  you  took  him  from  the  water  in  a 
great  storm  four  years  ago." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  all  this  ?  " 

^'Yes." 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  done  it." 

"  I  know  it." 

Luke  Garron  was  silent  for  some  moments. 
Alfred  crept  to  his  side  and  asked  him  what 
was  the  matter;  but  Luke  gave  him  no 
rinswer. 

"  What  sort  of  a  looking  man  was  he  ?  " 
he  at  length  asked  of  Nepsey. 

"  Not  at  all  pleasant  or  agreeable  after  he 
had  been  here  a  spell,  though  he  looked  well 
enough  when  he  first  called.  He  looked 
half  wolf  and  half  snake." 

At  any  other  time  Garron  would  have 
smUed  at  Nepsey's  answer,  but  he  felt  not 
like  it  now. 

"  Had  he  any  feature  by  which  you  could 
mark  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes;  three  great  scars  on  his  face — one 
across  his  nose,  one  on  his  cheek,  and  one 
across  his  chin." 

"  What  does  it  all  mean,  father  ?  "  asked 
the  boy,  as  he  got  up  into  Luke's  lap  and 
put  his  arms  about  the  keeper's  neck. 
"  What  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

'•  Nothing,  nothing,  my  child,"  said  Gar- 
ron, who  seemed  nervous  and  unhappy. 

"Ah I  father,  you  remember  what  you 
heard  me  read  in  my  Bible  yesterday  ?  " 

Luke  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  boy  with- 
out speaking. 

"You  know,"  continued  Alfred,  "we 
must  not  deceive  each  other.  I  know  you 
have  something.  Do  tell  me  what  it  is. 
Come,  I'll  be  good  ?  " 

"  O  Alfred,  you  must  not  ask  mel  "  bit- 
terly exclaimed  Luke.  ' '  Nepsey ,  you  should 
not  have  told  him;  you  should  not  have  said 
a  word." 

"  But  I  couldn't— I  didn't  know.  He  did 
not  seem  to  be  anyways  concerned  about  the 
matter  at  first,  and  I'm  sure  I  didn't  think 
of  harm.    Don't  blame  mel  " 

"  I  wont  blame  you,  Nepsey,"  uttered 
Luke;  "  but  I'm  sorry— sorry  I  " 

The    light-keeper    found  the  boy's  gaze 


fixed  earnestly  upon  him  as  he  spok©. 
Those  large,  blue  eyes  were  shining  with  an 
earnest,  liquid  light,  and  the  lips  were  tremb- 
ling with  fear. 

"  Alfred,"  Luke  said,  "  do  not  be  alarmed; 
I  will  protect  you." 

"But  what  is  the  danger?  Who  is  that 
man  ?  " 

Garron  looked  steadily  into  the  boy's  face 
some  time  without  speaking.  At  length  he 
said : — 

"  It  must  have  been  he  who  was  wrecked 
with  you." 

"  My  father?  "  cried  Alfred,  with  a  look 
of  alarm. 

"Yes." 

"  Oh  I  you  wiU  not  let  me  go  away  with 
him  ?  "  urged  the  boy,  clinging  more  closely 
to  his  protector.  "  You  will  keep  me  with 
you  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  returned  Luke,  folding  the 
boy  to  his  bosom.  "  Fear  not.  I  know 
Marrok  Pettrell,  and  he  shall  not  have" 

The  light-keeper  hesitated,  his  face  grew 
darker,  and  he  was  more  agitated. 

"  Come,  Alfred,  get  your  book,  and  I  will 
hear  your  lesson.  Let  this  fear  pass  from 
your  mind." 

The  boy  thought  his  protector  had  ban- 
ished all  his  own  fear.  He  was  not  old 
enough  to  read  those  quivering  signs  that 
dwelt  still  upon  Luke's  face,  and  with  a  look 
of  assured  safety  he  ran  for  his  book.  His 
lesson  had  indeed  been  most  faithfully  com- 
mitted, and  while  he  was  answering  bis 
kind  teacher's  questions,  his  young  face  was 
lighted  up  by  the  glow  of  youthful  ardor. 
He  was  proud  to  learn. 

Luke  Garron  heard  the  lesson  through, 
but  his  task  was  a  hard  one.  He  saw  that 
the  boy's  fears  were  in  a  measure  quieted, 
and  he  strove  hard  to  prevent  any  look  or 
word  of  his  own  from  renewing  them. 

"  That's  a  noble  boy!  "  he  said,  as  he 
returned  the  book.  "  Keep  on  so,  and  you 
will  be  a  happy  man." 

Luke  Garron  may  have  meant  what  he 
said;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  shuddered 
when  he  thought  of  the  boy's  future. 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL.      5 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  TEMPEST.— THE  SIGNAL  GUN. 

It  had  grown  dark,  and  Garron  had  gone 
to  light  up  the  beacon.  The  rain  came  down 
in  sweeping  torrents,  and  the  wind  howled 
like  ;i  mad  lion.  The  sea  roared  with  terror 
in  its  deep-toned  voice,  and  the  great  waves 
crashed  like  tumbling  mountains  as  they 
broke  in  fury  over  the  rocks  of  the  promon- 
tory. 

''This  is  a  fearful  night,"  uttered  the 
light-keeper,  as  he  entered  the  house  and 
shook  the  rain  from  his  long  jacket.  *'  God 
forbid  that  there  be  a  vessel  on  our  coast!  " 

"  How  the  wind  howls,"  said  Nepsey,  who 
was  crouched  away  in  the  chimney  c(>rner. 
"  It's  never  blown  harder  than  this  but  once 
for  twenty  years;  and  that  was  when  the  sea 
rolled  up  over  our  very  dooryard." 

'•  So  far  as  that  ?  "'  said  Alfred. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  Nepsey,  while  she  put 
the  corner  of  her  apron  to  her  eye;  "  that 
was  when  my  husband  was  lost.  It  was 
nearly  midnight  then,  and  the  light  in  the 
beacon  had  gone  out.  He  was  determined  to 
go  and  relight  it.  I  tried  to  make  him  stay 
with  me,  but  go  he  would.  He  went  out — 
he  got  to  the  beacon  and  fired  the  lamp,  but 
he  never  came  back  again." 

"  But  how  was  he  lost  ?  "  asked  the  boy, 
who  had  become  interested. 

'•  lie  must  have  been  swept  away.  I 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  saw  him  in  the 
beacon  after  he  had  fired  the  great  wicks, 
and  then  I  saw  him  turn  to  come  down.  A 
few  minutes  afterwards  the  windows  of  this 
room  were  broken  in  with  a  loud  crash,  and 
I  heard  the  great  sea  as  it  rolled  over.  My 
husband  must  have  gone  with  it,  for  I  never 
saw  him  afterwards." 

Alfred  arose  from  his  seat  and  went  to  the 
side  of  the  woman.  She  was  sobbing  be- 
neath the  smart  of  the  wound  she  had  opened, 
and  the  boy  placed  his  arm  about  her  neck, 
and  tried  to  soothe  her.  He  was  successful, 
for  Nepsey  kissed  the  kind-hearted  boy  and 
>iniled. 

At  nine  o'clock,  Alfred  sought  his  bed,  but 
lie   could   not    sleep,      The  wind  howled  so 


about  the  low  walls,  and  the  waves  roared  so 
upon  the  rocky  shore,  that  he  could  only  re- 
member that  fearful,  dreadful  night  when 
he  himself  had  been  torn  from  the  breaking 
ship,  and  washed  up  to  where  the  light- 
keeper  had  found  him.  That  was  four  years 
before,  when  he  was  only  four  years  old,  but 
the  scene  was  as  fresh  and  vivid  before  his 
mind  as  though  he  possessed  the  mental 
powers  of  manhood.  He  remembered  noth- 
ing back  of  the  storm  save  the  face  and 
blows  of  Marrok  Pettrell,  a  man  who  had 
professed  to  be  his  father;  but  he  could  only 
think  of  Pettrell  with  horror.  Upon  Luke 
Garron  he  fastened  his  childish  love.  He 
had  been  born  into  the  world  of  enjoyment 
when  he  first  found  shelter  beneath  the 
keeper's  roof:  he  was  the  child  of  the  storm, 
and  Luke  had  often  called  him  his  little 
"  Storm  Child." 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Garron  loved  this 
Storm  Child,  for  the  little  fellow  was  all 
goodness,  all  kindness,  gratitude,  and  love. 
He  remembered  just  enough  of  the  first 
four  years  of  his  life  to  form  a  contrast  with 
the  present,  and  that  contrast  filled  him 
with  thanks  and  gratitude.  His  mind  held 
a  fear  engendered  by  the  visit  of  Pettrell, 
the  preceding  afternoon,  but  his  young  soul 
reposed  with  considerable  confidence  in  the 
power  of  Garron.  Both  Garron  and  himself 
had  thought  Pettrell  dead  until  the  present 
time;  they  thought  he  had  been  lost  at  the 
time  when  Alfred  was  wrecked;  but  his  ap- 
pearance— Garron  knew  from  Kepsey's  des- 
cription that  it  must  be  he — had  dispelled 
the  supposition. 

It  was  after  ten  o'clock  when  Alfred  fell 
asleep.  At  midnight  he  was  awakened  by 
the  breaking  in  of  his  window.  He  leaped 
from  his  bed,  and  the  first  thought  that 
flashed  across  his  mind  was  of  the  sea's  hav- 
ing reached  the  house;  but  it  was  only  the 
wind,  after  all,  that  had  blown  the  window 
in.  He  soon  calmed  his  worst  fears,  but  he 
could  not  think  of  retiring  again.  The  wind 
was  still  howling  with  all  its  might,  but 
the  rain  had  nearly  ceased  falling.  Occa- 
sional drops,  however,  came  driving  down 
like  half-spent  pistol-balls. 


THE  STOKM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


The  boy  sought  the  kitchen,  and  Nepsey 
was  there  over  the  fire.  He  asked  for  his 
father,  and  was  told  that  he  was  in  the  bea- 
con. The  woman  tried  to  persuade  Alfred 
from  venturing  out,  but  it  was  of  no  avail. 
He  drew  on  his  coat,  and  having  buttoned  it 
closely  about  him,  he  put  on  his  cap  and  left 
the  house.  For  several  moments  after  he 
had  gained  the  yard,  he  was  obliged  to  give 
way  before  the  tempest.  The  wind  came 
near  taking  him  upon  its  bosom  and  bearing 
him  off,  but  he  at  length  braced  himself  and 
faced  it,  and  after  a  long  and  tedious  effort 
he  reached  the  beacon.  The  door  was  on 
the  leeward  side  of  the  structure,  and  he 
opened  it  and  closed  it  after  him  without 
diflSculty.  He  ascended  the  narrow  stone 
stairs  and  found  Garron  seated  near  the 
lamps. 

"  Mercy  on  me!  "Why,  what  brought  you 
here,  Alfred  ?  "  exclaimed  Luke,  as  the  boy 
approached  him. 

"I  came  to  seek  you,  father.  Oh,  how 
dreadfully  it  blows!  " 

"  But  you  should  not  have  ventured  out, 
my  child." 

"  I  could  not  stay  in  my  room,  for  the 
wind  has  blown  one  of  my  windows  in.  I 
had  rather  be  here  with  you." 

"  Your  room  would  have  been  safer  than 
this  place,"  returned  Garron. 

"  Then  what  makes  you  stay  here  ?  " 

"  To  see  that  the  lamps  do  not  go  out. 
They  have  been  out  twice  now.  The  wind 
draws  through  the  crevices  in  the  door,  and 
sometimes  it  comes  up  here  in  gusts." 

The  beacon  did  vibrate  beneath  the  pow- 
er of  the  gale,  and  Alfred  could  not  but  feel 
a  degree  of  alarm  as  he  felt  the  returning 
shocks,  but  he  soon  became  used  to  it,  and  a 
sense  of  novelty  overcame  his  fear. 

"  This  is  dreadful,  and  yet  how  grand  it 
is,"  uttered  the  boy,  as  he  crept  down  by 
the  side  of  his  guardian.  "  If  it  wasn't  for 
the  danger  of  life  to  these  poor  folks  at  sea, 
I  could  almost  wish  this  would  last.  It 
makes  me  feel  like  a  man  to  face  up  such  a 
storm." 

Garron  gazed  on  the  upturned  face  of  the 
boy,  and   a   smile  lit  up  his  features.     But 


the  smile  soon  passed  away,  and  with  a  sober 
look  he  laid  his  hand  upon  Alfred's  head. 

"  You  feel  safe,  my  child,  because  I  am 
here  with  you,"  he  said. 

The  boy  silently  acknowledged  the  truth 
of  the  remark. 

"  You  say  you  feel  like  a  man,"  contin- 
ued Garron,  with  a  tone  of  deep  pathos  and 
meaning.  "  You  feel  like  a  man  because 
you  can  face  this  storm  and  brave  all  its  dan- 
gers; but  when  you  grow  up  to  be  a  man  in 
years,  do  you  think  you  can  face  all  the 
storms  you  may  meet  ?  " 

Alfred  looked  inquisitively  at  his  guardian. 

'''  You  will  then  have  other  storms  to  face. 
Perhaps  in  a  few  years  you  will  be  cast  upon 
the  world,  and  be  obliged  to  guide  your  own 
bark.  Did  you  know  there  are  such  things 
as  sin  and  wickedness  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  with  a  shudder. 

"  And  did  you  know  that  evil  men  some- 
times tempt  the  unwary  into  sin  ?  Ah  I  my 
child,  if  you  live  to  be  a  man,  you  will  find 
many  a  storm  of  life  to  be  faced,  and  he  is  a 
noble  man  who  comes  out  safely  from  them 
all.  "When  you  came  out  of  the  house  to- 
night, did  you  not  have  to  stand  still  a  few 
moments  ere  you  could  gain  strength  to 
make  your  way  against  the  storm  ?  " 

"  Yes;  ;md  it  even  took  me  back  a  little 
ways." 

"  Would  it  not  have  been  very  easy  for 
you  to  have  turned  about  and  walked  the 
other  way  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes! " 

"  And  why  did  you  not  do  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  should  certainly  have  been 
lost." 

"  Yes.  And  why  did  you  face  the  storm 
and  walk  bravely  against  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  the  beacon  was  this  way." 

"  That's  it,  my  child,"  returned  Garron, 
as  he  drew  the  boy  closer  to  him.  "  Xow 
can  you  not  always  bear  this  simple  thing  in 
mind  ?  You  wish  to  be  a  good  man  when 
you  grow  up,  and  you  wish  to  have  your 
name  honored  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Then,"  resumed  Garron,  "let  that  be 
your  beacon,  and  remember  that  to  reach 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


that  beacon  is  the  object  of  your  journey  of 
life.  Lei  the  wind  be  high  or  low,  let  it 
blow  a  tempest  or  a  gentle  breeze,  keep  your 
face  towards  the  beacon,  and  push  boldly 
forward.  If  the  gale  be  against  you,  face  it 
without  fear.  It  may  at  times  seem  more 
easy  to  walk  the  other  way  when  the  tem- 
pest howls  in  your  face,  but  remember  that 
the  ocean  of  danger  may  swallow  you.  Face 
about,  brave  the  storm,  and  push  on  for  your 
beacon.    Think  you  can  remember  this  ?  " 

The  boy  arose  to  his  feet,  and  after  gaz- 
JHg  for  a  moment  into  his  protector's  face, 
he  threw  his  arm  about  the  good  man's  neck, 
and  gently  murmured : — 

"  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

The  tempest  howled,  and  the  beacon  trem- 
bled, but  for  a  while  the  man  and  boy  no- 
ticed it  not.  They  were  busy  with  other 
thoughts.    • 

"Great  God  I  what  was  that?"  cried  the 
light-keeper,  lifting  the  boy  from  his  knees 
and  springing  to  his  feet. 

"  I  heard  nothing  but  the  wind,"  said  the 
boy. 

"  No,  no,  'twas  not  the  wind.  Hal  Did 
you  hear  that,  Alfred  ?  " 

"  I  heard  something.  It  was  the  break  of 
a  big  wave  on  the  rocks." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  a  gunl  " 

"  A  gun!  "  repeated  Alfred.  "  Then  there 
must  be  some  ship  on  the  coast." 

"  Yes.  Ah,  there  goes  another.  Stay 
you  here.  I  will  go  down  and  see  if  I  can 
make  out  her  whereabouts.  Another — and 
another.     Oh,  this  is  fearful  I  " 

"  I  must  go  with  you,"  said  the  boy. 

"  You  had  better  stay." 

"  No,  let  me  go.     I  can  face  the  storm." 

"  Then  come." 

Luke  Garron  saw  that  the  beacon  lamps 
were  all  safe,  and  then  he  turned  to  descend 
iho  stone  stairs.  When  he  reached  the 
ground  he  passed  out,  closed  the  door  safely 
behind  him,  and  then  gave  his  hand  to  the 
boy.  It  was  only  a  few  rods  to  the  head  of 
the  bluff,  and  with  careful  steps  the  keeper 
made  his  way  along.  The  heavens  were  as 
black  as  ink,  and  the  earth  was  buried  in 
darkness;  but  the  lashing  waters  of  the  broad 


Channel  were  visible  in  their  phosphorescent 
glimmering,  and  the  two  companions  could 
see  the  great  white  heaps  of  foam  that  came 
crashing  upon  the  rocks. 

They  had  to  grope  their  way  along  with 
the  utmost  care,  for  a  single  false  step  would 
be  dangerous.  Alfred,  however,  bore  brave- 
ly up,  and  Garron  found  that  his  help  was 
not  necessary  to  keep  the  boy  up.  He  still 
held  him  by  the  hand,  though,  for  he  did 
not  care  to  run  the  risk  of  danger.  Ere  long 
there  came  a  dull  boom  upon  the  tempest, 
and  Garron  stopped.  Another  and  another 
report  followed  in  rapid  succession. 

"  Those  were  guns,  certainly,"  said  Luke. 

"  Ah,  then  I  saw  a  glimmer,"  said  the 
boy. 

Hardly  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth 
before  the  sound  of  the  distant  gun  came 
rolling  along.  Alfred  made  his  guardian 
understand  the  direction  in  which  he  had 
seen  the  glimmer,  and  it  was  soon  seen 
again,  and  again  the  report  followed. 

"  That  is  the  spot,"  said  the  keeper,  fast- 
ening his  eyes  upon  the  point  in  which  he 
had  seen  the  light. 

"  How  far  off  is  she  ?  "  asked  the  bey  at 
the  top  of  his  voice. 

"Not  over  six  or  seven  miles,"  returned 
Garron. 

"  And  the  wind  must  be  setting  her  this 
way,"  added  the  boy,  bracing  himself  more 
firmly  against  the  gale. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  uttered  the  light-keeper,  in  a 
deep,  heavy  tone.     "  She  is  lost,  lostl '' 

"  If  she  don't  work  off,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Work  off  I  "  echoed  Garron.  "  A  piece 
of  canvas  no  bigger  than  a  hat-cover  wouldn't 
stand  before  this  gale.  Work  off!  Would 
to  God  she  could,  for  Heaven  knows  I  can 
give  her  no  aid!  I  can  only  look  up  the  ill- 
fated  crew  in  the  morning." 

It  was  now  near  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  rain  had  ceased  falling  altogether, 
and  away  off  in  the  western  heavens  there 
appeared  to  be  a  breaking  in  the  black  sky. 
Still  the  light-keeper  and  the  boy  stood  upon 
the  bluff  and  gazed  off  to  where  ever  and 
anon  appeared  the  lightning  of  the  ship'? 
suns.     Those   guns   still   boomed   over  the 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


waters,  but  the  tempest  mocked  at  them,  and 
howled  down  their  terror-laden  notes. 

The  ill-fated  ship  had  now  been  driven  so 
near  that  the  report  followed  closely  upon 
the  flash  of  the  gun.  It  was  evident  to  Gar- 
ron  that  she  would  strike  before  she  could 
reach  the  bluff.  She  seemed  driving  towards 
a  point  about  half  a  mile  to  the  westward  of 
the  spot  where  the  watchers  stood,  and 
would  thus  strike  the  extreme  western  sweep 
of  the  promontory. 

"  The  people  at  Comb  Martin  may  have 
heard  the  guns,  and  some  of  them  may  come 
out,"  said  the  boy. 

"Perhaps  so;  but  that  is  sixteen  miles 
from  here,  and  no  one  would  be  very  likely 
to  follow  the  ship,"  returned  Garron.  Ohl 
God  knows  I  cannot  ward  off  the  blowl 
They  are  in  the  hands  of  One  who  doeth  all 
things  well,  and  he  will  have  called  many  a 
soul  home  to  himself  ere  another  sun  shall 
rise.  God  have  mercy  on  them,  and  I  will 
do  what  I  can." 

For  a  long  time  the  two  watchers  stood  in 
silence.  The  ship  came  nearer  and  nearer. 
It  was  now  evident  that  she  would  strike,  as 
Garron  had  anticipated.  The  break  in  the 
western  sky  had  grown  larger,  and  the  heavy 
edges  of  the  black  clouds  could  be  seen  as 
they  began  to  break  away  from  the  bosom  of 
the  Atlantic  and  roll  up  into  the  heavens. 
The  gale  seemed  to  slacken.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  the  watchers  had  become  inured 
to  it.     Yet  its  fury  was  on  the  wane. 

"  I  ihiuk  I  can  see  her,"  uttered  the  boy, 
pointing  with  his  hand  towards  the  spot 
where  it  had  been  thought  the  ship  would 
strike. 

The  light-keeper  looked,  and  he  could  just 
distinguish  a  black  mass  upon  the  surging 
waves.  His  hands  were  clasped  in  fearful 
suspense. 

"  Did  you  see  her?  "  asked  the  boy. 

''  Yes,  Alfred." 

"  Oh,  how  near  she  is!    Lookl    Look!" 

"  Her  last  moment  is  at  hand!  "  murmured 
Luke  Garron,  as  he  bent  his  head  forward 
and  strained  his  eyes  towards  the  fatal  scene. 

"  Hark!  ""  s^udderingly  uttered  the  boy. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  wild,  fearful 


cry  over  the  lashing  surge.  Then  came  a 
crashing — a  rumbling  of  rending  timbers — 
and  again  that  wild  cry  broke  upon  the  tem- 
pest. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  WRECK,  AND  THE  STOKM   CHILD. 

The  first  gray  streaks  of  morning  were  in 
the  east.  The  tempest  had  passed  over  in 
its  fury,  but  the  wind  murmured  a  mournful 
requiem,  and  the  great  heavy  waves  rolled 
sluggishly  in  from  the  ocean.  Luke  Garron 
armed  himself  with  a  short  hook  and  a 
hatchet,  and  a  coil  of  light  rope,  and  with 
Alfred  for  a  companion,  he  set  forth  towards 
the  scene  of  the  wreck. 

As  they  descended  the  bluff  towards  the 
west  they  could  just  distinguish  the  outlines 
of  the  ragged  mass  of  timbers  that  were  fast- 
ened among  the  rocks.  When  they  reached 
the  low  shore  they  found  that  fragments  of 
the  wreck  were  lodged  all  along  in  the  crev- 
ices of  the  low  breakers,  and  the  sea  was 
breaking  over  them  in  wild  confusion.  At 
the  distance  of  ten  rods  from  the  promontory 
the  two  companions  suddenly  stopped.  Up- 
on a  small  bed  of  gray  sand,  where  the  watef. 
washed  in  between  two  large  rocks,  lay  the 
form  of  a  human  being.  It  was  a  seaman, 
and  his  face  was  turned  downward.  Luke 
turned  the  corpse  over.  The  features  were 
stiff  and  rigid. 

"  This  is  the  beginning,"  murmured  the 
light-keeper,  as  he  brushed  the  sand  from 
the  cold  face. 

The  boy  did  not  speak,  but  he  helped  his 
protector  draw  the  body  further  up  on  the 
shore,  and  then  they  passed  on. 

Ere  long  another  body  was  found,  and 
having  drawn  it  up  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
sea,  the  companions  set  forward  again ;  but 
they  were  soon  stopped  by  a  sight  that 
chilled  their  blood.  Three  female  forms  lay 
close  between  two  rocks,  and  they  were 
clasped  firmly  in  each  other's  embrace. 
Luke  Garron  stood  for  a  moment  without  the 
power  to  speak. 

"Oh!"  uttered  the  boy,  shrinking   more 


THE  STOKM  CHILDREN;  OB,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


closely  to  his  guardian,  "this  is  dreadful. 
Think  they  are  dead  ?  " 

••Yes,'' mournfully  returned  Luke.  "They 
no  longer  know  what  it  is  to  suffer.  The 
voice  of  the  storm  is  hushed  to  their  ears, 
and  they  feel  not  the  chill  of  the  cold  sea. 
Death  is  but  death.  The  angel  unlocks  the 
doors  of  the  soul  and  lets  the  spirit  forth; 
yet  it  seems  hard  to  have  the  spirit  torn  out 
thu?.-' 

Luke  could  not  move  the  bodies  of  the 
women  without  help,  and  he  moved  forward. 
At  length  he  reached  the  spot  where  the 
ship  had  struck.  Great  spars  and  timbers 
were  strewed  about  over  the  beach  and 
among  the  rocks.  For  the  distance  of  many 
rods  the  sea  was  flanked  with  big  rocks  and 
sharp  crags,  while  back  towards  the  shore 
was  spread  a  low  beach.  Most  of  the  lighter 
stuff  that  had  broken  loose  from  the  wreck 
was  spread  upon  this  beach,  but  the  heavy 
parts  were  lodged  among  the  rocks.  The 
>hip  had  struck  her  bows  upon  the  breakers, 
and  had  then  been  literally  knocked  to  pieces. 
For  a  long  time  Luke  Garron  searched  for 
some  living  witness  who  might  tell  to  him 
the  story  of  the  ship  and  her  crew,  but  not 
one  could  he  find.  There  were  witnesses 
-enough  to  tell  the  sad  story  of  the  wreck, 
and  of  its  load  of  death,  but  they  were  all 
silent — their  lips  were  sealed. 

Many  of  those  who  had  thus  met  their 
death,  Luke  knew  must  have  been  passen- 
gers. From  the  bales  and  boxes  which  were 
scattered  about  him,  he  knew  that  the  ship 
had  been  an  Indiamau.  For  nearly  an  hour 
the  light-keeper  continued  his  search,  but 
every  face  he  met  was  stiff  and  cold. 

The  boy  had  been  walking  alone.  His 
soul  was  filled  with  awe,  and  with  a  fearfully 
beating  heart  he  gazed  upon  the  ghastly 
emblems  of  mortality  that  lay  about  him. 
While  his  companion  was  hunting  among 
the  rocks,  Alfred  walked  back  to  the  spot 
where  the  three  females  were  lodged  be- 
tween the  rocks.  He  reached  the  place,  and 
for  a  long  time  he  stood  still  and  gazed  upon 
the  scene.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  one 
who  might  have  been  his  own  mother;  one 
whom  he  fancied  he  could  remember,  but 


whom  he  could  only  see  in  his  young  heart's 
affection,  for  his  memory  retained  no  image 
of  the  loved  ideal. 

Suddenly  the  boy  started,  for  he  thought 
he  heard  a  sound  issue  from  one  of  the 
women,  and  he  was  sure  that  he  saw  a 
movement  of  the  drapery  that  clung  about 
the  cold  forms.  He  sprang  forward  and  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  brow  of  her  who  laid  up- 
permost, but  there  was  no  life  there.  The 
other  two  faces  he  could  see,  and  he  was 
sure  that  no  life  animated  them.  The  sea 
broke  over  the  spot,  and  all  drenched  with 
water  the  boy  made  his  way  to  the  sand. 

"  It  was  only  the  gurgling  of  the  water 
among  the  rocks,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  scene. 

But  again  he  heard  the  sound,  and  he  saw 
the  drapery  move.  Once  more  he  sprang 
forth  upon  the  rocks  and  knelt  down  by  the 
side  of  the  corpse.  Again  he  heard  the 
sound  that  had  startled  him,  and  one  of  the 
dresses  moved  beneath  his  hand.  It  was 
surely  the  voice  of  a  child  he  heard! 

With  the  strength  that  might  have  be- 
come a  man,  Alfred  raised  the  uppermost 
form.  His  heart  leaped  with  a  wild  thrill  as 
he  beheld  a  little  child  nestled  awa\  in  the 
embrace  of  the  female  he  had  moved.  It 
opened  its  eyes  as  the  light  came  in  upon  it, 
and  a  sharp  cry  broke  from  its  lips.  It  was 
a  girl,  and  as  the  boy  raised  her  in  his  arms 
she  laid  her  little  head  upon  his  bosom  and 
began  to  cry. 

The  child's  resting-place  had  been  so 
shielded  from, the  sea,  that  its  force  had 
been  lost  upon  her,  and  she  had  not  been 
struck  by  any  of  the  timbers  or  rocks.  Two 
of  the  women  seemed  to  have  been  clasped 
together  so  as  to  shield  the  child,  while  the 
third  clung  to  her  companions  from  the  in- 
stinct of  safety.  Of  course,  the  little  thing 
was  wet  and  cold,  but  it  seemed  not  to  have 
been  bodily  harmed. 

With  hasty  steps  the  boy  made  his  way 
back  to  the  beach,  and  then  cried  out  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  for  his  guardian.  Garron 
heard  him,  and  hastened  to  the  spot. 

'•Oh,  see,  see!"  cried  Alfred;  "  I  have 
found  a  living  child." 


10 


THE  STORM   CHILDREN:   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


''God  be  thankedl"  uttered  Luke,-ashe 
took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  gazed  into  its 
face.  "  One  life,  at  least,  is  saved  to  earth. 
The  little  thing  is  cold.  We  must  hasten  to 
the  house  with  it,  and  then  come  back  again."' 

"  Let  me  carry  her,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  You  are  not  strong  enough,  Alfred.  It 
would  take  you  too  long,  and  she  is  very  cold 
now." 

Luke  strode  on  towards  his  house  with  the 
child,  and  Alfred  ran  along  by  his  side. 

"Here,  Nepsey,"  said  Garrou,  as  he  en- 
tered the  kitchen,  "  here  is  a  charge  for  you. 
Get  something  dry  for  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  But  its  mother — whei-e  is  she  ?  "  asked 
the  old  woman,  as  she  took  the  child  in  her 
arms,  and  instinctively  kissed  it. 

"I'm  afraid  this  child  is  the  only  one 
saved  from  the  wreck.  We  can  find  no  more 
of  life  " 

"No  morel  All  gonel"  ejaculated  Xep- 
sey. 

"  Yes,  all  gone!  But  hurry  and  make  the 
most  of  this." 

The  woman  was  for  some  moments  de- 
prived of  her  reasoning  faculties,  birt  at 
length  she  gathered  her  senses  together,  and 
kissing  the  child  again,  she  turned  towards 
the  fire. 

''  Another  child  of  the  storm,"  she  said,  as 
she  fixed  a  seat  for  her  charge. 

The  light-keeper  gazed  thoughtfuUj-  upon 
the  child,  and  a  kind  look— almost  a  smile — 
broke  over  his  features. 

"It  is  the  second  of  my  storm  children," 
he  said.     "  Be  careful  of  her,  Nepsey." 

There  was  no  need  of  this  charge,  for  the 
woman  was  hurrying  to  fix  a  warm,  dry 
dress,  and  the  cast  of  her  countenance  show- 
ed that  her  heart  was  enlisted  in  the  work. 

Luke  Garron  started  to  return  to  the  scene 
of  the^  wreck,  and  Alfred  followed  him. 
When  they  again  reached  the  spot,  they 
found  that  a  number  of  men  had  arrived 
from  Comb  Martin,  and  in  less  than  an  hour 
over  an  hundred  people  had  assembled  about 
the  place.  The  bodies  were  all  collected— or 
at  least,  such  as  could  be  found,  and  before 
noon  two  of  the  coroners  of  Devonshire, 
with  other  officers,  were  upon  the  spot.     The 


ship' was  found  to  be  the  "Chesham,"  but 
none  of  her  papers  could  be  found.  At  the 
request  of  Garron  the  bodies  of  the  three 
females  were  carried  up  to  his  house,  and 
the  others  were  placed  in  wagons  and  carried 
to  Comb  Martin. 

The  proper  officers  took  charge  of  the 
wreck,  and  their  men  set  about  the  work  of 
collecting  such  things  as  were  of  value.  The 
deep  waters  of  the  bay  were  settling  into 
quiet  once  more.  They  seemed  like  the  fa- 
tigued lion  who  has  performed  his  work  of 
death,  and  goes  crouching  away  to  his  rest. 

It  was  nearly  night  when  Luke  Garrou  re- 
turned to  his  house.  The  child  was  asleep, 
and  he  sought  his  own  bed  to  gain,  if  pos- 
sible, a  little  rest  before  it  would  be  time  to 
light  the  beacon.  Alfred,  too,  was  tired,  and 
he  early  sought  that  sleep  of  which  he  had 
been  deprived  the  preceding  night. 

The  next  morning  was  bright,  and  the  little 
girl  who  had  been  saved  from  the  wreck  was 
running  about  the  kitchen  calling  for  her 
"  mama."  She  was  a  bright-eyed  creature, 
about  four  years  old,  and  her  hair  hung  down 
upon  her  shoulders  in  glossy  ringlets.  Her 
cheeks  were  wet  with  tears,  nor  could  Nep- 
sej-  comfort  her.  The  light-keeper  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  carried  her  to  where  the 
bodies  of  the  three  females  had  been  laid. 

"  Mama,  mama!  "  cried  the  child, reaching 
forth  her  little  hands  towards  the  female 
from  whose  embrace  Alfred  had  released  her. 

"Is  that  mama?"  asked  Garron,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  cold  brow  of  the  woman 
in  question. 

"  Yes,  my  mama — my  mama!  "  cried  the 
child,  struggling  to  get  away  from  the  man 
who"^held  her. 

"  I  think  not,"  returned  Luke.  "  That 
woman  is  certainly  Scotch,  and  there  is  no 
likeness  between  her  and  the  child." 

"  But  the  child  must  know  its  own  moth- 
er," said  Nepsey;  but  she  spoke  in  a  doubt- 
ing mood,  for  she  saw  the  disparity  which 
Luke  had  pointed  out.  The  woman  was 
Scotch  in  dress  and  feature,  and  not  far  from 
forty  years  of  age. 

"  It  may  be  only  a  nurse,"  said  Garron. 
"  It  certainly  cannot  be  a  mother.     If  she  is 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,    THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE  CHANNEL. 


the  nurse  who  has  always  liad  charge  of  the 
child,  she  would  naturally  call  her  'mama.'  " 

The  child  still  cried  for  its  mama,  and 
GaiTon  at  length  carried  her  away.  Alfred 
took  her,  and  with  the  boy  she  soon  became 
composed.  She  laughed  with  him,  and  be- 
fore the  day  was  passed  she  had  learned  to 
regard  him  with  manifest  affection.  She 
seemed  to  regard  him  with  more  favor  than 
she  did  the  older  people,  though  she  still 
had  spells  of  crying  for  her  "  mama."  She 
said  her  name  was  Ella  Dean. 

At  the  end  of  a  week  from  the  time  of  the 
wreck,  Ella  had  become  quite  satisfied  with 
her  new  home.  She  laughed  and  played 
with  Alfred,  smiled  when  Luke  took  her  in 
his  arms,  and  called  Nepsey  her  "  mama." 
Word  had  been  sent  out  of  the  circumstance, 
but  no  one  came  to  claim  the  little  girl,  and 
the  light-keeper  began  to  look  upon  her  as 
his  own.  Her  bright  presence  called  new 
smiles  to  his  face,  and  with  Alfred  upon  one 
knee,  and  Ella  upon  the  other,  he  loved  to 
sit  and  laugh  and  play  with  his  Storm 
Children. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  STRANGE  TRANSACTION. 

Back  of  the  beacon  house,  beneath  the 
shade  of  the  great  oak,  Luke  Garron  had 
made  three  graves,  and  within  their  silent 
chambers  he  deposited  the  remains  of  the 
females  who  had  been  brought  to  his  house. 
He  could  find  no  clew  to  their  names,  and  he 
simply  raised  a  slab  upon  the  spot,  which 
bore  upon  its  surface  a  simple  record  of  the 
event  that  had  transpired.  He  was  firm  in 
his  conviction  that  neither  of  the  women 
could  have  been  the  mother  of  Ella,  for  the 
child  seemed  to  recognize  only  one  of  them, 
and  all  the  rules  of  physiognomy  set  aside 
the  supposition  that  that  one  could  have 
been  any  kin  to  the  girl. 

Two  weeks  had  passed  away,  and  Ella 
Dean  was  happy.  She  piped  forth  her  joy- 
ous notes  like  a  warbling  bird,  and  with  Al- 
fred by  her  side,  she  was  happy.  Sometimes 
she  spoke  of  her  "  other  mama,"  and  tears 


would  start  to  her  eyes,  and  her  little,  lips 
would  tremble;  but  a  kiss  from  Alfred  would 
dispel  the  cloud  and  light  up  her  face  with 
smiles  agam. 

It  was  just  after  noon,  on  a  pleasant  day, 
and  the  two  children  were  at  play  before  the 
house.  Luke  Garron  had  gone  down  to  his 
boat,  and  Nepsey  was  about  her  work  in  the 
building.  Suddenly  Alfred  was  startled  by 
the  appearance  of  three  men  who  had  come 
up  through  the  path  from  the  woods.  One 
of  them  he  recognized  as  the  man  who  had 
been  there  two  weeks  before,  and  he  was 
sadly  frightened. 

Mairok  Pettrell— for  it  was  he — gazed  a 
few  moments  on  the  boy,  and  then  he  went 
up  to  where  he  stood. 

"  Your  name  is  Alfred  ?  "  said  Pettrell. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Alfred  Pettrell  ?  "  coutinued  the  man. 

"No,  no— Alfred  Harrold,"  uttered  the 
boy,  trembling  with  fear. 

"  No.  Your  name  is  Pettrell.  You  are 
my  own  son.  Don't  you  remember  me  ? 
Don't  you  remember  when  we  were  cast 
away  together  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no!  I  don't  remember  you!  " 
cried  the  boy  moving  back  with  terror. 
"  Good  Luke  Garron  is  ray  father." 

"  I  declare,"  said  one  of  Pettrell's  com- 
panions, with  a  coarse  laugh,  "  the  boy 
doesn't  know  his  own  father.  Well,  blow 
me  if  that  aint  a  rum  go!  " 

"  It  can't  be  expected,  Bronkon,"  re- 
turned Pettrell,  "  for  I  haint  seen  the  boy 
before  for  four  years.  But  come,  my  son," 
he  continued,  turning  toward  Alfred,  "  you 
will  go  with  me,  now." 

"  No,  no!  "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  I  wont 
go  with  you.     I'll  go  and  find  my  father." 

Alfred  started  to  run  away  as  he  spoke, 
but  the  man  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Stop,  stop,  my  boy.  I  am  your  father, 
and  I  have  come  to  take  you." 

Alfred  cried  with  terror,  and  little  Ella 
screamed  and  started  towards  the  house. 
Nepsey  came  out  to  see  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, and  at  that  same  moment  Luke  Garron 
came  up  from  his  boat. 

"  Father,  father!  "  cried  Alfred,  breaking 


J2         THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


away  from  Pettrell  and  running  to  the  light- 
keeper,  "  you  wont  let  these  ugly  men  take 
me  away  ?  " 

Luke  seemed  to  recognize  Marrok  Pet- 
trell at  once,  for  his  face  turned  pale,  and  he 
trembled. 

"  Your  name  is  Garron,  I  take  it  ?  "  said 
Pettrel],  advancing  towards  Luke. 
•  "Yes,"  returned  the  light-keeper,  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  shrinking 
boy. 

''  Then  I've  come  to  get  my  son.  That's 
him." 

"  Your  son!  "  repeated  Garron. 

' '  Yes.  That  youngster  who  seems  to  take 
fruch  a  fancy  for  you.  He's  my  child — my 
-own  blood,  and  I  want  him." 

"  You  cannot  have  him,"  firmly  returned 
Luke. 

Marrok  Pettrell  laughed. 

"  That  is  a  go!  "  said  Bronkon. 

"  A  queer  business,"  added  Pettrell,  "  for 
a  father  to  be  denied  his  own  child." 

*'  He  is  not  your  child,"  said  Luke. 

"  No;  I  am  your  own  child — your  own 
boy!  "  cried  Alfred. 

''  Now  you  make  me  out  a  liar!  "  said  Pet- 
trell. "  Was  not  that  boy  thrown  upon  the 
coast  here  four  years  ago  this  spring  ?  " 

'*  Yes,"  answered  Luke,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

''  Of  course  he  was;  and  it  was  my  own 
vessel  that  was  wrecked,"  resumed  Pettrell. 
"  I  was  washed  ashore  about  six  miles  be- 
yond Porlock  on  a  spare  spar.  I  always 
thought  my  boy  was  lost  till  about  a  month 
ago,  and  then  I  heard  that  you  had  found 
him.  Of  course  I  knew  it  was  my  boy. 
Now  I  want  him." 

Luke  Garron  trembled  like  an  aspen,  and 
he  knew  not  what  to  do.  The  boy  clung  to 
him,  and  begged  for  his  protection. 

''  You  cannot — must  not  take  him,"  ut- 
tered Garron,  in  despairing  accents. 

"What;  not  have  my  own  flesh  and 
blood?  "  exclaimed  Pettrell,  with  much  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  do  not  believe" 

"  Blow  your  belief,"  impatiently  inler- 
riipted  Pettrell.     •'  I  want  my  boy,  and  that 


is  enough  for  an  honest  man.  Hope  you  do 
not  want  me  to  use  force  ?  " 

The  light-keeper  doubled  up  his  fists  as 
he  heard  these  words,  and  the  muscles  of  his 
arms  worked  like  big  cords.  The  quick 
flush  of  anger,  however,  passed  from  his 
face,  and  he  bore  a  look  of  the  keenest  an- 
guish. 

"  Let  me  keep  him,"  he  said.  In  God's 
name  I  implore  you  let  me  keep  him.  He 
has  become  part  of  my  very  life,  and  I  can- 
not part  with  him." 

"  I'm  really  sorry  to  give  you  so  much 
pain,"  coolly  replied  Pettrell;  "  but  what  is 
mine  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  it;  so  the 
boy  must  come  along." 

Garron  stood  and  held  the  boy,  but  he 
had  lost  his  firmness.  Dark  clouds  passed 
over  his  features,  and  once  his  hand  rested 
upon  the  pistol  in  his  belt. 

"Come,  Pettrell,  take  the  boy,  and  let's 
be  off,"  said  Bronkon. 

Marrok  Pettrell  moved  towards  the  place 
where  the  boy  stood. 

"Keep  back!  "  gasped  Luke.  "  Lay  not 
a  hand  upon  him !    He  is  my  child!  " 

"  Your  child!  "  laughed  Pettrell,  in  de- 
rision. 

"  Mine  by  right  of  justice,"  continued 
Luke.  "  I  saved  him  from  the  cold  sea,  and 
I  have  nursed  and  reared  him  from  a  little 
child.    He's  mine!  mine!  " 

"  Not  quite,  so  stop  your  foolery,  and  give 
me  my  boy." 

Pettrell  caught  Alfred  by  the  arm  as  he 
spoke,  and  pulled  him  away  from  the  light- 
keeper. 

"  Save  me!  save  me!  Oh,  for  God's  sake 
save  me!  "  cried  Alfred. 

Little  Ella  shrieked  and  ran  into  the 
house. 

In  a  moment  all  Luke's  firmness  returned 
to  him.  The  cries  of  the  loved  boy  over- 
came all  other  emotions  but  those  of  love 
for  the  child,  and  with  one  blow  of  his  pow- 
erful fist  he  knocked  Marrok  Pettrell  over  on 
the  greensward,  and  then  seized  the  child  in 
his  arms.  He  had  commenced  a  contest, 
however,  which  he  could  not  carry  out,  for 
bolh  the  other  incn  .s[irang  upon  him,  and  a 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


blow  from  the  butt  of  Bronkon's  pistol  laid 
iiim  senseless  upon  the  ground. 

When  Luke  Garron  came  to  himself,  old 
Nepsey  was  bending  ov«r  him,  and  little 
Ella  was  kneeling  by  his  side. 

"  Where— where — is  my  boy?"  were  his 
first  words,  as  he  arose  to  his  elbow. 

"Gone!  They've  carried  him  offi  "  said 
the  woman. 

The  light-keeper  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
gazed  wildly  about  him. 

At  that  moment  a  body  of  horsemen,  at 
the  head  of  whom  was  the  sheriff  of  Somer- 
set, came  galloping  tOAvards  the  house. 

"  Have  there  been  three  men  —  three 
strangers — near  here?"  hastily  asked  the 
sheriff,  as  he  pulled  up  his  horse  by  the  side 
of  Luke. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  quickly  returned  Nepsey, 
while  her  master  was  collecting  his  senses. 

"  And  where  are  they  now  ?  " 

"  Gone  off  into  the  woods.  Off  that  way," 
said  the  woman,  pointing  towards  the  path 
that  led  out  into  the  Porlock  road. 

"  How  long  since  ?  " 

"  Not  over  fifteen  minutes." 

"Hold!"  exclaimed  Luke,  as  the  sheriff 
was  turning  away;  "  who  is  it  you  seek?  " 

"  A  fellow  named  Pettrell,  and  two  of  his 
men.     They  are  smugglers." 

Oh,  sir,  bring  me  back  the  boy  they  have 
with  them.  They  have  stolen  him  away 
from  me." 

"  The  boy  I  have  seen  here  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes — yes." 

"  You  shall  have  him  if  I  can  but  find  the 


As  the  officer  spoke  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  toward  the  wood,  and  his  men  followed 
him. 

Nepsey  explained  to  her  master  how  the 
men  had  seized  Alfred  and  borne  him  off, 
and  how  he  cried  for  help.  The  stout  man 
shook  as  he  heard  the  story,  and  he  groaned 
with  bitter  anguish.  Little  Ella  cried  and 
talked  about  the  '*  ugly  old  men  "  till  she 
had  worried  herself  to  sleep  in  Nepsey's  lap. 

Till  long  after  nightfall  did  Luke  Garron 
sit  upon  a  rock  at  the  corner  of  his  house  and 
strain  his  aching  eyes  off  towards  the  woods, 


and  it  was  not  until  the  darkness  had  fairly  . 
set  in  that  he  thought  of  the  beacon.  When  ! 
he  did  think  of  his  neglected  duty,  he  moved  ■ 
very  slowly  to  its  performance,  and  heavy  j 
sighs  escaped  from  his  lips.  After  he  had  i 
lighted  the  lamps  in  the  beacon,  he  came  < 
down  and  proceeded  to  the  house.  j 

"  Garron,"  said  Nepsey,  after  she  had  re-        \ 
garded  the  anguish-wrought  features  of  her 
master  for  some  time  in  silence,  "  do  you 
think  that  man  is  the  father  of  Alfred  ?  "  ; 

"  No,"  returned  Luke,  with  a  sudden  start.         ' 

"  Then  what  does  all  this  mean  ?  " 

"  Mean  ?  "  repeated  Luke. 

"Yes."  ' 

"  You  see  as  well  as  I  do."  i 

"  Then  you  have  no  idea  of  why  that  man 
wishes  to  take  the  boy  away  ?  " 

The  light-keeper  looked  up  into  Nepsey's  i 
face,  and  a  shudder  ran  through  his  frame.  ] 

"  Don't  you  think  you  have  as  much  right  j 
to  the  boy  as  this  Pettrell  has?"  continued  j 
the  woman.  \ 

Luke  remained  silent, 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Garron,"  persisted  she,  ] 
"have  you  not  as  much  right  to  Alfred  as  j 
Pettrellhas  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  found  the  boy,  and  i*aved 
hia  life,"  at  length  returned  Luke;   "and         j 
that  surely  gives  me  good  claim  until  another         j 
is  presented  stronger.     The  ties   of   blood 
would  outweigh  the  mere  saving  of  life."' 

"  But  you  don't  believe  there  is  any  tie  of 
blood  between  Pettrell  and  the  boy  ?  '" 

"  Tie  of  blood  I  "  uttered  the  light-keeper, 
while  he  trembled  more  fearfully  than  be- 
fore. 

"  Between  Pettrell  and  the  boy,"  added 
the  woman,  not  seeming  to  notice  the  effect 
produced  upon  her  master. 

"  No,  no,  there  can  be  none — none  that  I 
know." 

"  Then  make  Pettrell  prove  his  right  to 
the  boy." 

"  It's  too  late  now." 

"  No.  He  will  come  back.  I  know  the 
officers  will  overtake  those  men." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  come  back  ?  •'  ask- 
ed Luke. 

Nepsey  started  at  the  strange  tone  of  Gar- 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


ron's  voice — it  was  so  different  from  its  usual 
strong  and  open  volume.  And  then  his 
mind,  too,  seemed  to  be  so  wandering,  just 
as  though  he  C(>uld  not  govern  his  thoughts. 

"  I  know  he  will  come  back,"  she  answer- 
ed. "  The  men  cannot  turn  from  the  path 
till  they  reach  the  road,  atd  the  officers  will 
overtake  them  before  that.  I'm  sure  Alfred 
will  come  back." 

"  God  send  it." 

•'  And  now  if  he  does  come,"  resumed  the 
woman,  '"you  won't  let  him  go  again  ?  Make 
Pettrell  prove  his  right  first.  Oh,  it  is  dread- 
ful to  think  of  how  the  poor  little  fellow 
must  suffer.  If  I  had  been  a  man  he  should 
never  have  gone  as  it  was." 

"If  Pettrell  is -taken  and -convicted  of 
smuggling,  he  may  be  hanged!  "  exclaimed 
Luke,  half  starting  from  his  chair. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Nepsey. 

"  Then  he  will  never  come  again  for  the 
boy." 

Nepsey  was  certainly  puzzled  by  the  man- 
ner of  her  master,  and  she  showed  it  plainly 
in  her  looks.  She  did  not  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  speak,  however,  for  at  that  moment 
the  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  was  heard  com- 
ing around  the  house.  Luke  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  rushed  to  the  door,  where  he  arrived 
just  in  season  to  see  his  boy  sliding  down 
from  behind  an  officer.  He  caught  the  lad 
in  his  arms  and  lifted  him  to  his  bosom. 

"  Did  you  catch  the  men  ?  "  he  asked  of 
ttie  rider. 

•'  No;  but  the  others  are  after  them.  We 
pressed  them  hotly,  and  they  dropped  the 
boy  and  took  to  the  woods,  so  the  sheriff 
sent  me  back  with  him.  He's  safe  and 
sound,  sir." 

The  man  rode  off,  and  Luke  returned  into 
the  house.  Alfred  was  shaking  with  the  ef- 
fects of  his  fear, but  he  soon  grew  calm;  and 
then  he  related  to  his  protector  how  the  men 
had  carried  him  off — how  the  officers  came 
near  overtaking  them,  and  how  they  dropped 
him. 

'•  Oh!  "  he  uttered,  "  that  man  is  not  my 
father.  I  will  never  live  with  him.  I  would 
run  away  and  come  back  to  you,  for  I  love 
you."' 


"Bless  you,  my  boy,  bless  you!"  ejacu- 
lated Garron,  as  he  folded  the  boy  to  his 
bosom.  "  The  officers  may  take  the  wicked 
man,  and  then  he  will  trouble  us  no  more." 

"  1  hope  they  will  take  him,"  said  Alfred, 
"  for  Pettrell  told  me  when  he  set  me  down 
in  the  woods,  that  he  would  have  me  if  he 
had  to  die  for  it.    He  said  I  was  his  child."" 

Luke  tried  to  assure  the  boy  that  he  was 
safe,  and  at  length  the  little  fellow  sought 
his  bed.  Garron  remained  in  the  house  un- 
til nine  o'clock,  and  then  he  went  to  see  the 
light. 

The  keeper  stopped  as  he  reached  the 
yard  in  front  of  his  house,  and  looked  about 
him.  The  stars  were  glittering  like  tiny 
lamps  in  the  heavens,  and  the  breeze  came 
in  cool  and  refreshing  from  the  broad  Atlan- 
tic. The  sea  was  capped  by  long,  low  swells, 
that  broke  mournfully  upon  the  rocks;  and 
after  gazing  for  some  time  upon  the  dark 
bosom  of  the  channel,  Luke  Garron  moved 
slowly  towards  the  beacon.  His  steps  were 
heavy,  and  he  seemed  sad  at  heart. 


CHAPTER   V. 


A   TERRIBLE   BLOW. 


We  must  now  pass  over  eight  years.  In 
handling  events  of  the  past,  such  a  step  is 
easily  taken,  and  though  we  fly.  Parnassus- 
like over  the  gulf,  yet  we  cannot  hide  the 
marks  of  change,  nor  the  indelible  foot-prints 
of  old  Time.  Eight  years!  How  simple  the 
expression;  and  yet  how  important  may 
have  been  the  epoch.  Kingdoms  have  been 
built  in  eight  years,  and  in  the  same  time 
great  nations  have  fallen.  In  eight  years 
what  hosts  of  humanity  have  been  swept 
away  from  the  earth,  and  what  countless 
numbers  of  beings  have  started  fresh  and 
strong  in  the  race  of  life.  Great  hopes  have 
ended  in  fruition,  and  greater  hopes  have 
been  crushed.  Many  a  flower  has  withered 
and  died,  and  many  a  blossom  has  opened 
its  leaves  to  the  warm  sun,  in  all  the  joyous- 
ness  of  sweet  and  happy  life.  Eight  years 
have  passed.    Some  men  have  grown  better, 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL.         15 


— some  have  grown  worse — and  some  stand 
like  cold  lumps  of  unimpressible  granite,  in 
the  same  spot  upon  the  moral  road;  and 
there  they  will  stand  till  a  hand  more  pow- 
erful than  the  love  of  gain,  shall  snatch  them 
away  from  a  world  that  shall  never  miss 
them. 

Time  has  passed;  yet  the  same  immutable 
laws  govern  God's  world  of  humanity.  Sin 
has  tlie  same  fitful  glare,  to  dazzle  the  eyes 
of  the  fool,  the  same  deep-laid  snares  for  the 
unwary,  and  the  same  sharp  thorns  for  its 
victims.  Calm  Virtue  still  holds  in  her 
hand  the  same  lustrous  lamp  of  holy  flame, 
which  no  gale  or  storm  can  extinguish;  her 
face  still  bears  the  same  sweet  smile,  and 
her  followers  are  still  happy. 
•'■  With  Luke'Garron  time  had  made  but  lit- 
tle change.  A  few  gray  hairs  have  set 
themselves  upon  his  head,  and  a  few  wrink- 
les have  been  marked  upon  his  countenance; 
but  he  still  bears  the  same  noble,  generous 
look,  and  his  black  eye  is  undimmed. 

With  the  Storm  Children  the  change  has 
been  great.  Alfred  Harrold  has  grown  to 
be  a  large  boy,  for  he  has  just  seen  his  six- 
teenth birthday.  He  is  tall  for  his  age,  and 
his  form  has  been  developed  in  manly 
beauty.  His  hair  is  still  glossy  in  its  hue  of 
light  brown,  and  his  eye  is  still  light  in  its 
liquid  blue.  The  very  thought-marks  upon 
his  f^ir  countenance  show  that  he  has  stud- 
ied to  some  purpose,  beneath  the  teachings 
of  his  generous  protector. 

And  little  Ella,  now  smiling  in  her  twelfth 
year.  Oh,  how  beautiful,  how  lovely,  and 
how  happy  I  Her  dark  brown  hair  floats  in 
glittering  ringlets,  and  from  out  the  depths 
of  her  soft,  hazel  eyes  there  shines  the  light 
of  her  whole  affectionate  heart.  She  w^alks 
where  Alfred  walks;  she  sits  where  Alfred 
sits;  s-he  reads  in  Alfred's  books,  and  Alfred 
teaches  her  the  same  lessons  he  has  been 
taught.  When  Alfred  smiles  upon  her,  she 
throws  her  little  white  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kisses  him;  and  then  they  talk  of  love; 
such  love  as  hearts  feel  Ihat  know  nothing 
beyond  the  world  of  purity  and  peace. 

Nepsey's  step  has  grown  slower  and  weak- 
er, but  she  has  help  from  the  children,  and 


she  loves  to  hear  them  laughing  and  talking 
about  her. 

It  was  towards  night  on  a  day  of  early  au- 
tumn. Luke  and  Alfred  stood  upon  the 
bluff  that  overlooked  the  small  cove.  Ella 
had  just  gone  into  the  house,  for  the  evening 
air  was  becoming  damp  and  cool. 

"  She's  a  fine  sailer,"  said  Luke.  "  See 
how  she  slips  along  through  the  water." 

The  light-keeper  alluded  to  a  brig  that  was 
coming  up  the  Channel,  and  at  which  he  and 
Alfred  had  been  looking. 

"  She  is,  indeed,  a  pretty  craft,"  returned 
the  youth.  "  Let  me  take  the  glass  a  mo- 
ment." 

Luke  handed  him  the  spy-glass,  and  he 
raised  it  to  his  eye. 

"  She  has  no  ports,  but  I  think  I  can  see 
guns  upon  her  deck,"  he  said. 

"Guns!"  uttered  Luke.  "  You  must  be 
mistaken.     Let  me  look." 

Luke  took  the  glass. 

"No,"  he  resumed,  after  he  had  looked  a 
few  moments;  "those  are  not  guns.  They 
are  water-casks." 

"  But  what  do  you  make  her  out  to  be?  " 
asked  Alfred.  "  She  does  not  look  like  a 
government  vessel,  nor  does  she  look  like  a 
trader." 

"  She  may  be  one  of  those  Yankee  traders 
bound  up  to  Bristol,"  said  Luke,  still  looking 
through  his  glass. 

"But  she's  got  no  load,"  suggested  the 
youth. 

"She  may  have  come  from  Brest.  Ah, 
what's  that  ?  She's  luffing,  as  sure  as  the 
world." 

The  wind  was  southwest,  and  the  brig  had 
been  leaving  it  upon  her  starboard  quarter; 
but  as  the  old  man  spoke,  she  had  put  her 
holm  down ,  and  was  hauling  in  her  lee  braces 
— and  her  head  was  consequently  coming 
about  towards  the  promontory. 

"What  can  she  want  here?"  Luke  con- 
tinued. 

"  It  may  be  a  smuggler,  who  thinks  to  land 
his  goods  above  here,"  said  Alfred. 

At  the  mention  of  that  word,  Luke  Garron 
trembled.  Alfred  noticed  it,  and  he  looked 
earnestly  into  the  old  man's  face. 


16        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;   OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


Again  Luke  levelled  his  glass;  but  the 
deepening  shades  of  evening  dimmed  the 
view,  and  he  could  see  the  brig's  deck  but 
indistinctly. 

"She's  entirely  in  the  wind  now,"  said 
Alfred. 

"  Yes;  and  there  goes  her  anchor." 

The  two  watchers  could  see  the  brig's  sails 
were  being  clewed  up,  and  that  her  yards 
were  braced  to  the  wind.  It  became  too 
dark  to  see  more,  and  the  light-keeper  turned 
towards  the  house,  whither  Alfred  followed 
him.  Soon  afterwards  the  great  lamps  were 
lighted  in  the  beacon,  and  then  Luke  re- 
paired to  the  sitting-room.  At  eight  o'clock 
Ella  went  to  bed;  but  a  strange  fear  had 
seized  upon  the  mind  of  Alfred,  and  he 
could  not  think  of  sleep.  He  did  not  think 
of  sliding  off  into  the  woods,  but  he  tried  to 
quell  the  rising  alarm  by  endeavoring  to  per- 
suade himself  that  all  was  safe. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  Luke  had  just 
arisen  for  the  purpose  of  going  to  look  after 
ihe  beacon  light,  when  he  was  startled  by 
the  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  in  front  of 
the  house.  A  moment  afterwards  there 
came  a  knocking  upon  the  door,  and  Nepsey 
went  to  see  who  was  there. 

Luke  Garron  sank  back  into  a  chair,  and 
Alfred  sprang  to  his  side,  as  Marrok  Pettrell 
entered  the  room !  He  was  followed  by  four 
men,  two  of  whom  were  the  same  that  at- 
tended him  eight  years  ago, 

"A  pleasant  evening  to  you,"  said  the 
smuggler. 

Luke  did  not  speak. 

"  Can't  ye  welcome  an  old  friend  ?  "  con- 
tinued Pettrell. 

"Do  not  profane  that  sacred  name,"  said 
Garron,  clutching  his  hands  in  nervous  anx- 
iety; "  but  tell  me  what  you  seek?  " 

"  I've  come  to  seek  what  I  lost  eight  years 
ago,"  returned  Pettrell,  casting  a  peculiar 
look  upon  Alfred. 

"  You  mean  the  boy  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  can  go  as  you  went  then." 

"  Without  him  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Garron;  I've  come  now  to 


some  purpose.  The  boy's  grown  to  be  a 
stout  fellow,  and  he'll  be  of  service  to  me. 
He's  my  own  son,  and  have  him  I'm  deter- 
mined to." 

"  Marrok  Pettrell" 

"Ah,"  interi'upted  the  smuggler,  '-how 
do  you  know  me  so  well  ?  " 

Garron  changed  color;  but  he  soon  over- 
came the  emotion,  and  returned: — 

"  I've  heard  your  name  from  the  revenue 
officers." 

"Ah!  Then  you  have  heard  my  name 
used  rather  lightly.  But  it's  the  fate  of  hon- 
est men  to  be  maligned.  Come,  Master  Al- 
fred, you  must  ship  under  your  father's  flag 
for  the  future." 

"Not  under  yours!  "  returned  the  boy. 

"  There's  spunk,"  said  Bronkon,  with  his 
usual  coarse  laugh. 

"  Ay,  and  I  shall  like  him  the  better  for 
it,"  added  Pettrell. 

"  You  cannot  have  the  lad,"  said  Luke 
Garron,  who  had  assumed  a  fearless  look, 
and  arisen  from  his  chair.  "  You  know  that 
he  is  not  your  child,  and  that  you  have  no 
earthly  right  to  him." 

"  Avast  a  bit,  Mr.  Garron.  Where  did 
you  get  the  boy?  " 

"  I  saved  him  from  the  wreck  of  a  vessel 
years  ago." 

"Yes,  and  he  was  my  child,  and  I  lost 
him.  Great  guns  and  thunder!  do  j'ou  think 
yourself  the  owner  of  everjthing  you  find ? 
I'm  really  obliged  to  you  for  the  care  you've' 
taken  of  the  youngster,  and  perhaps  I'll  pay 
you  sometime;  but  for  the  present  I  think 
I'll  take  my  property  to  my  own  keeping. 
So  come  along.  Master  Alfred!  " 

"  Never!  "  said  the  youth. 

"  That's  good,"  contemptuously  returned 
the  smuggler;  and  then,  while  a  darker  shade 
settled  upon  his  features,  he  added: — 

"But  mark  }e,  my  boy — not  having  had 
you  under  my  protection,  perhaps  I  might 
not  be  so  tender  of  ye  as  you've  been  used 
to.  You'll  find  it  pleasant  sailing  if  you 
keep  your  sails  trimmed  right;  but  if  you  are 
going  to  lay  your  canvass  aback,  you'd  bet- 
ter look  out  for  squalls.  Do  you  understand 
that  ?  " 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN:   OR,    THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


Alfred  was  bold,  and  his  heart  was  strong 
in  moral  right,  but  he  had  been  tenderly 
reared,  and  he  shuddered  as  he  met  the  gaze 
of  Pettrell,  and  heard  his  portentous 
words. 

"  I  don't  s'pose  there's  any  need  of  more 
talk,"  resumed  the  smuggler,  as  he  moved 
towards  Alfred.  "  I  have  c^me  after  my 
boy,  and  I  don't  think  'twill  be  for  your  good 
to  make  any  resistance." 

Luke  Garron  gazed  upon  the  smuggler, 
and  then  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Alfred. 
His  face  had  turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  he 
trembled  at  every  joint. 

"I  will  not  leave  you,  father,'"  cried  the 
youth,  throwing  his  arms  about  the  old  nian's 
neck. 

Garron  started  back  and  drew  his  pistol. 
It  trembled  a  moment  in  his  hand,  and  then 
he  put  it  back  again  in  his  belt. 

"  Do  not  take  him!  Oh,  do  not!"'  he  ut- 
tered, as  he  strained  the  boy  to  his  bosom. 

"Garron,''  said  the  smuggler,  while  his 
features  softened  in  their  expression,  "you 
ask  of  me  an  impossibility.  The  boy  is  mine 
— I  want  him — and  I  must  have  him.  Now 
there's  no  use  in  saying  another  word.  You 
know  there's  no  law  on  earth  that  would 
give  yoti  a  right  above  my  claim.  I've  got 
nothing  against  you.  I  forgive  you  for  the 
blow  you  struck  me  eight  years  ago:  but  don't 
raise  your  hand  to  do  such  a  thing  again."" 

"I  cannot — will  not  gol  "  exclaimed  Al- 
fred. 

"You'll  go  with  your  father  ?"  said  the 
smuggler,  coaxingly. 

"•  Out  upon  you!  you  miserable,  wretched, 
vile,  mean,  disgraceful,  wicked  vagabond!  " 
cried  old  Nepsey,  springing  from  her  seat. 
"There  isn't  a  drop  of  your  blood  in  that 
boy's  veins,  you  know  there  isn't!  " 

■•  What  a  Tartar!  ''  exclaimed  Broukon. 

••  Tartar,  or  not  Tartar,  I'm  an  honest 
woman;  and  God  knows  you  came  villains 
from  your  cradles!  " 

Xepsey  grasped  the  back  of  her  chai; ;  but 
she  was  old  and  weak,  and  she  soon  settled 
back  into  her  chair. 

"  .\lfred— my  bo}— my  son,"  whispered 
Luke  Garron,  while  the  smuggler's  attention 


was  turned  towards  Nepsey,  "  1  cannot  save 
you  now;  you  must  go  with  Pettrell.  But 
forget  not  my  counsels — escape  if  you  can, 
and  come  to  me.  I  do  not  believe  he  is  your 
father.  Oh,  what  a  blo'v  is  this!  I  have 
loved  you,  but  fate  is  against  me!  Go, 
Alfred — go!  God  bless  you  now  and  ever! 
Do  not  speak  to  me;  do  not  let  me  hear  your 
voice  again,  for  I  cannot  Ijear  it!  " 

Deep  sobs  choked  the  old  man's  utterance, 
and  he  sank  pow-erless  into  a  chair.  Big 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  and  his  head 
was  bowed.  Alfred  clung  to  him  with  fran- 
tic energy,  but  he  found  no  language  for  the 
emotioiis  of  his  soul. 

"Come.*'  '' 

The  boy  started  as  he  felt  the  hand  of 
Pettrell  laid  upon  his  arm. 

"  Come,  my  boy." 

Alfred  looked  up,  and  as  he  met  the  gaze 
of  the  smuggler  he  sank  upon  his  knees. 
Two  strong  men  lifted  him  up  and  bore  him 
away,  but  Luke  saw  not  the  movement.  It 
was  well  he  did  not,  for  he  had  already  more 
misery  heaped  upon  his  heart  than  he  could 
bear. 

At  length  the  outer  door  was  closed,  and 
the  tramp  of  feet  sank  lower  in  the  distance. 
The  old  man  raised  his  head.  He  and  Xep- 
sey were  alone. 

"  Is  he  gone  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Yes,"'  returned  the  woman.'* 

Luke  groaned,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  Shortly  afterwards  he  went  out 
and  ascended  to  the  beacon,  and  there  he 
remained  through  the  long  night.  Early  in 
the  morning  Xepsey  went  to  look  after  her 
master.  She  found  him  -stretched  across  one 
of  the  stout  oaken  braces  in  the  top  of  the 
beacon,  in  a  deep  sleep.  It  was  not  yet 
open  daylight,  but  the  great  lamp  had  gone 
out.  and  the  wicks  were. stiff  and  cold. 

The  woman  aroused  him  and  he  started  to 
his  feet.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  gazed 
about  him,  and  then  he  sank  upon  tiie  oak- 
en brace,  and  bowed  his  head  upon  his 
breast.  Xepsey  took  him  by  the  baud  to 
lead  him  down.  He  arose,  and  with  tremb- 
ling steps  he  followed  her. 

Ella  came  forth  to  seek  her  playmate; 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN:   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


but  she  could  not  find  him.  Nepsey  told  her 
Alfred  had  gone. 

•'  But  he  will  come  back.  He  will  come 
to  see  his  Ella,"  the  girl  cried.  And  she 
ran  to  the  old  man's  side,  and  asked  him  if 
Alfred  would  not  come  back. 

For  the  sake  of  that  sweet  girl,  the  light- 
keeper  kept  back  his  heavy  grief;  but  he 
could  not  wholly  deceive  her.  She  feared 
that  Alfred  would  not  come  back,  and  she 
cried  with  an  aching  heart. 

Pen  cannot  paint  such  sorrow  as  had  fall- 
en upon  the  old  man  and  that  bright-eyed 
child.  Only  the  human  heart  can  bear  its 
impress;  and  to  know  it  the  heart  must  feel 
it. 

When  Luke  walked  out  upon  the  bluff, 
the  brig  which  had  been  there  the  night 
before  had  gone.  No  traces  were  left  of  her, 
save  the  pangs  that  dwelt  with  the  memory 
of  her  presence,  in  his  own  bosom. 


CHAPTEE  VI. 

THE    SMUGGLER. 

Alfred  Harrold  (such  was  the  name 
be  had  borne  since  he  lived  with  Luke  Gar- 
ron,  and  so  we  call  him)  spoke  not  a  word 
as  he  was  being  led  down  to  the  water. 
Once  he  struggled  to  free  himself  from  the 
hold  that  was  upon  him;  but  the  movement 
was  in  vain,  and  he  tried  it  not  a  second 
time.  When  his  conductors  reached  the 
eove,  they  put  him  on  board  a  boat  that  was 
made  fast  there,  and  soon  he  was  moving 
towards  the  brig.  It  was  too  dark  when  he 
passed  over  the  gangway  for  him  to  distin- 
guish objects  about  the  deck,  and  he  fol- 
lowed Pettrell  down  the  after  hatchway  into 
the  cabin.  A  hanging-lamp  was  burning 
there,  and  as  the  door  closed  behind  them, 
Pettrell  turned  to  the  youth. 

''  Novr,"  said  he,  "  you  are  where  you  by 
right  belong.  I  am  master  here,  and  my 
will  is  law.  I  am  your  parent,  and  I  shall 
expect  from  you  a  child's  obedience.  If 
you  choose  not  to  give  me  that,  however,  I 
shall  demand  subjection  of  another  sort. 
Can  you  understand  ?  " 


Alfred  was  silent.  He  gazed  into  the 
hard  features  of  Marrok  Pettrell,  but  he 
knew  not  what  to  reply. 

"  Will  you  not  answer  me  ?  "  sternly  ut- 
tered the  smuggler. 

"  I  have  no  finswer  to  make." 

"I  asked ^if  you  understood  what  I  had 
said?" 

Alfred  Harrold  had  seen  many  storms — he 
had  passed  throtigh  many  dangers,  and  more 
than  once  on  the  rotigh  coast  had  he  dis- 
played a  fearlessness  that  might  have  be- 
come a  bold  man.  He  had  dared  the  heavy 
sea  when  men  were  in  danger,  and  he  had 
never  shrank.  His  heart  was  strong  now, 
and,  as  he  gradually  arose  above  the  first 
stunning  effects  of  the  blow  he  had  received, 
he  felt  a  moral  power  that  made  him  fear- 
less. 

•'  I  have  heard  you  speak,"  he  said,  "  and 
I  think  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  returned  Pettrell,  show- 
ing by  his  looks  that  he  was  a  little  surprised 
at  the  boy's  lofty  manner.  "And  how -do 
you  think  you  can  obey  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  tell  better  when  I  know  your  com- 
mands." 

"  Ah!  You  are  putting  your  foot  on  dan- 
gerous ground." 

"  I  feel  that,  sir." 

'•  Then  you  had  better  beware!  " 

'•  But  it  was  you  who  brought  me  to  the 
dangerous  ground." 

"You  twist  my  meaning,  youngster.  I 
meant  that  your  tongue  was  leading  you  into 
danger;  so  look  out  how  you  use  it." 

"  I  shall  not  be  impudent,  sir;  but  it  is 
ray  right — a  right  given  to  me  by  God  him- 
self, through  Christ,  my  Teacher — to  main- 
tain my  integrity  and  my  honor." 

"  P-h-e-w!  "  whistled  Pettrell,  with  a  look 
of  contempt;  but  a  close  observer  could  have 
seen  that  his  contempt  was  assumed.  "  You 
are  bold  for  one  of  your  years.  But  let  me 
assure  you  of  one  thing:  I  stand  your  pres- 
ent talk  with  easy  grace  for  me,  but  be  care- 
ful that  you  don't  show  your  independence 
before  the  men.  It  will  be  well  for  you  to 
remember  this.  And  now  what  do  you 
know  of  sea  matters  ?  " 


THK  STORM   CHILDREN;   OK,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


"Enough  to  sail  a  ship  from  here  to 
Bristol." 

''  Ah.  You  will  be  useful,  then.  Is  Luke 
Garrou  a  seaman  ?  " 

'f  Few  men  know  more  of  the  sea." 

"  lie  has  followed  the  sea,  then  ?  " 

'*  lie  must  have  followed  it  at  some  time." 

"  Then  I  may  thank  him  for  teaching  you 
seamanship,  for  such  knowledge  will  be  of 
much  service  to  me.  Your  morality  I  ad- 
vise you  to  keep  for  your  own  use." 

The  youth's  eyes  flashed,  for  the  diaboli- 
cal sneer  of  the  man  cut  him  to  the  soul. 

"  For  the  present,"  continued  Pettrell, 
"  you  will  take  up  your  quarters  in  the 
cabin.  I  won't  trust  you  in  the  forecastle 
yet.  You  can  come  on  deck  if  you  wish, 
but  remember  what  I  have  said." 

Pettrell  turned  and  went  on  deck.  For 
some  minutes  Alfred  stood  and  gazed  at  the 
vacant  spot  wliere  he  had  last  seen  the 
smuggler,  and  then  his  mind  reverted  to  the 
terrible  calamity  that  had  befallen  him. 
He  staggered  back  and  sank  upon  a  low 
stool.  It  must  have  been  full  half  an  hour 
that  the  boy  sat  in  one  position  and  wept. 
He  thought  of  his  kind  protector,  and  his 
soul  was  torn  with  anguish.  He  thought  of 
Ella,  and  his  heart  sank  into  the  burning 
depths  of  utter  misery.  He  reflected  that 
he  might  never  again  see  those  bright  eyes — 
that  he  might  never  more  behold  that  sweet 
face^-that  that  beaming,  happy  smile  would 
never  again  light  his  joy — and  he  groaned 
aloud.  Thexi  his  thoughts  dwelt  upon  the 
present — and  then  ran  into  the  future,  and 
he  shuddered. 

Then  came  back  to  his  mind  those  words 
that  Luke  had  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  He  is  not  my  father!  "  he  uttered,  while 
his  hands  were  clasped  in  an  agony  of  hope. 

A  strange  expression,  perhaps — but  that 
boy  did  experience,  at  that  moment,  an 
agonij  of  hope!  He  hoped  the  wicked  man 
was  not  his  father,  aud  yet  the  hope  was  all 
agony. 

At  length  Alfred  started  to  his  feet.  He 
brushed  the  tears  from  his  face,  and  then 
he  clasped  both  his  hands  upon  his  heart. 

"  Actio7i!^^  he  murmured,  as  he   turned 


his  eyes  towards  heaven.  "  If  this  be  God's 
will,  then  let  it  be  done  This  is  a  fearful 
storm  indeed;  but  I  will  face  it  while  I  have 
strength.  Yes,  my  kind,  generous  protect- 
or, I  will  not  turn  from  the  path  that  leads  to 
the  beacon!  God  be  with  me,  and  guide  me! 
There— I  feel  stronger  now!  " 

A  pure,  a  holy  light  shone  upon  the  face 
of  the  boy  as  he  now  stood  there  in  the 
smuggler's  cabin,  and  he  had  fixed  upon  the 
course  he  would  pursue.  The  details  of  that 
course  he  could  not  lay  out,  but  he  knew 
the  object  he  had  in  view,  and  he  only 
prayed  for  strength  to  sustain  him  in  the 
endeavor.  He  felt  the  strength  of  a  man  in 
his  soul,  and  his  good  muscles  were  strung 
for  the  trial. 

When  Alfred  had  so  far  regained  his  pres- 
ence of  mind  as  to  turn  his  thoughts  upon 
outward  things,  he  found  from  the  sound 
upon  the  deck  that  the  men  were  heaving 
up  the  anchor.  The  atmosphere  of  the 
cabin  seemed  hot  and  oppressive  to  him, 
and  he  ascended  the  ladder.  He  could  see 
the  dusky  forms  of  many  men  moving  about 
the  deck,  and  he  could  see  the  topsails  were 
sheeted  home  and  the   yards  mast-headed. 

The  youth  turned  his  gaze  towards  the 
shore;  the  dark  outlines  of  the  bluff  were 
just  visible,  and  beyond  he  saw  the  bright 
light  of  the  beacon.  He  gazed  upon  the 
light  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  bent  his 
head  and  covered  his  face. 

"  Found  the  way  on  deck,  eh  ?  " 

Alfred  looked  up  and  found  Marrok  Pet- 
trell by  his  side. 

"  A  free  and  jolly  life  is  before  you,"  con- 
tinued the  captain,  "  so  you  had  better  make 
up  your  mind  to  enjoy  it." 

The  youth  had  no  answer  to  return,  aud 
Pettrell  turned  his  attention  to  the  working 
of  the  brig.  The  anchor  had  broken  ground, 
and  the  vessel  was  soon  put  upon  the  lar- 
board tack  and  standing  towards  the  coast 
of  Wales.  Alfred  remained  on  deck  half 
an  hour,  when  he  went  back  to  the  cabin. 
He  crawled  into  the  narrow  berth  that  had 
been  pointed  out  to  him,  and  at  length  he 
slept. 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  Alfred  awoke, 


20 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN:  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL 


and  again  he  passed  through  an  ordeal  of 
Boul  harrowing  thought  and  reflection;  but 
he  knew  that  repining  would  never  aid  him, 
and  uttering  forth  a  simple  prayer  to  God, 
he  arranged  his  dress  and  went  on  deck. 

The  brig  he  found  was  a  large  one ;  and  he 
found,  too,  that  what  he  had  taken  for  guns 
the  night  before,  were,  as  Luke  had  said, 
nothing  but  water-casks.  Yet  he  thought 
he  could  detect  upon  either  side  of  the  deck 
the  marks  of  carriage  wheels,  and  they  ran 
at  right  angles  with  portions  of  the  bulwarks 
that  seemed  made  for  moving  in  case  of 
need.  There  were  twenty-five  men  besides 
the  captain  on  board.  They  were  all  stout 
fellows,  and  looked  reckless  enough. for  any 
calling  that  might  turn  up;  yet  some  of  them 
showed  passing  signs  of  respectable  good 
nature  in  their  countenances.  Reckless  they 
were,  but  not  all  so  hard-hearted  as  the  cap- 
tain. There  was  one  countenance,  however, 
that  seemed  more  repulsive  than  all  the  rest 
—and  that  was  Bronkon's.  He  was  a  dark 
featured,  powerful  man,  with  a  coarse,  wick- 
ed expression  of  countenance,  and  he  seemed 
to  smile  only  when  he  saw  misery  about 
him.  He  was  the  second  in  command,  and 
seemed  a  fit  mate  for  the  smuggler  captain. 

The  morning  was  bright  and  clear;  when 
Alfred  reached  the  deck  he  found  that  the 
brig  was  just  passing  between  Hartland  Point 
and  Lundy  Island,  with  a  fresh  breeze  from 
the  eastward. 

"Well,  my  boy,  suppose  I  put  you  on  one 
of  the  watches,"  said  Pettrell,  after  he  had 
allowed  the  youth  sufficient  time  to  look 
about  him.     "  We  don't  have  idlers  here." 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  returned 
Alfred,  conquering,  with  strong  effort,  his 
indignation. 

"  Then  I  shall  put  you  in  the  starboard 
watch  with  myself.  Your  limbs  show  a 
pretty  good  quantity  of  muscle,  and  I  think 
we'll  show  you  how  to  use  'em.  I  tell  you, 
Alfred,  I  think  myself  lucky  in  finding  you." 

"  More  lucky,  probably,  than  I  am  in  being 
found,"  returned  the  youth. 

"  That  depends  upon  circumstances.  You 
can  make  it  lucky  enough  if  you  choose. 
Just    let    me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice: 


Learn  to  take  the  world  just  as  you  find  it." 

"That's  the  doctrine,  youngster,"  said 
Bronkon,  who  stood  near.  "  Take  it  as  you 
find  it,  and  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  I  shall  endeavor  to  get  along  the  best 
way  I  can,"  answered  Alfred.  "  My  life  so 
far  has  not  been  without  its  storms,  and  1 
have  weathered  them  all.  Of  one  thing  you 
may  rest  assured;  there  is  no  fear  of  com- 
mon danger  hanging  about  my  heart." 

"  Very  good  for  a  beginning,"  said  Pet- 
trell. "  That's  the  right  kind  of  a  spirit,  if 
you  only  use  it  in  the  right  way.  But  we 
shall  see." 

As  the  captain  turned  away,  Alfred  re- 
flected upon  the  course  before  hirh,  and  he 
was  not  long  arriving  at  the  deterrhination 
to  perform  a  seaman's  duty  to  the  best  of 
his  ability.  He  found  himself  placed  in  a 
position  where  he  was  not  responsible  for 
the  business  of  the  voyage,  and  from  whence 
there  was  no  present  escape ;  so  he  knew  no 
blame  could  attach  to  him  so  long  as  he  laid 
not  his  hand  to  that  which  was  really  evil. 
He  was  most  emphatically  in  a  position 
where  there  were  but  two  choices,  and  both 
of  them  evil.  He  chose  that  which  offered 
the  least  evil. 


CHAPTER  VIL 


THE  BATTLE. 


Alfred  Harrold  showed  himself  a 
good  seaman,  and  though  Pettrell  seemed 
pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  he  did  his 
duty,  yet  he  treated  the  youth  with  an)-- 
thing  but  kindness.  He  did  not  really  abuse 
him,  but  his  manner  was  unfeeling  and 
coarse,  and  he  was  angry  when  Alfred  re- 
fused to  acknowledge  him  as  a  father. 
Among  the  men,  however,  the  youth  had 
made  many  friends.  They  could  not  but  love 
one  who  was  so  kind  and  forbearing,  though 
they  were  incapable  of  appreciating  the 
moral  feelings  that  gave  source  to  the  kind- 
ness they  loved.  Months  passed  away,  and 
Alfred  became  more  accustomed  to  his  ocean 
home.  The  sharper  points  of  his  anguish 
were  worn  off;  but  his  heart  still  turned 
with    longing  love   towards  the  old  light- 


THE   STORM   CHILDKP:X:   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


21 


keeper,  and  he  dreamed  sweet  dreams,  both 
sleeping  and  waking,  of  the  bright-eyed 
Ella. 

The  brig  went  to  Canton  and  took  in  part 
of  a  load  of  silks,  and  then  touched  at  Su- 
matra and  filled  up  with  spices;  and  in  nine 
months  from  the  time  of  her  leaving  the 
liristol  Channel  she  was  again  upon  the 
coast  of  England,  and  the  season  was  sum- 
mer. Alfred  knew  that  the  brig's  cargo  was 
\o  be  smuggled  ou  shore,  and  from  remarks 
that  he  had  heard,  he  knew  that  Pettrell  had 
trusty  agents  in  Lancashire. 

The  brig  had  entered  the  Irish  Sea,  and 
with  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  north-west  was 
heading  in  towards  the  mouth  of  the  river 
Kibble.  It  was  near  noon,  when  one  of  the 
men  in  the  foretop  reported  a  sail  to  the 
southeast.  A  consultation  was  held  between 
Pettrell  and  Bronkon,  and  it  was  decided  to 
stand  on.  The  smuggler  was  now  heading 
due  east,  and  was  not  far  from  fifty  miles 
from  Lancashire  coast. 

"  It  may  be  only  some  trader  coming  out 
from  Liverpool,"  said  Bronkon. 

"  Very  likely,"  returned  the  captain. 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  levelled  his  glass  upon 
the  object  of  his  consultation.  ''  She's  a 
schooner,  I  think,"'  said  he,  as  he  lowered 
his  glass  and  turned  towards  his  mate. 

•'  If  it  should  be  one  of  those  infernal  cut- 
ters," muttered  Bronkon. 

'•  She's  heading  this  way,"  resumed  Pet- 
trell, again  levelling  his  glass. 

•'  Then  she's  a  revenue  hound,  as  sure  as 
fate,"  said  the  mate.  "  Let  me  take  the 
glass  ?  " 

Bronkon  looked  for  several  minutes,  and 
when  he  lowered  the  glass  a  defiant  smile 
broke  over  his  coarse  features. 

"She's  a  revenue  craft,"  he  said.  "I 
know  her  well,  and  shouldn't  wonder  if  she 
knew  us.  We  had  better  haul  on  the  wind 
and  lay  up  for  Morecambe." 

The  captain  assented  to  the  proposal,  and 
the  brig's  head  was  put  up  accordingly. 

"  We  sha'n't  get  clear,"  muttered  Pettrell. 
••  She  gains  ou  us." 

"If  she  must  come,  then  let  her  come," 
returned  Bronkon. 


An  hour  passed,  and  the  schooner  was 
not  two  miles  distant.  Her  guns  could  be 
seen  peeping  out  from  her  sides,  and  it  could 
also  be  seen  that  she  carried  a  large  number 
of  men. 

"  This  is  going  to  be  an  ugly  job,"  said 
the  smuggler  captain,  pacing  the  deck  with 
nervous   strides. 

"  But  we  must  make  the  best  of  it,"  cool- 
ly returned  Bronkon. 

"  They  won't  take  us  without  a  blow,  at  all 
events,"  resumed  Pettrell.  "  Waffon,  get 
up  the  playthings." 

The  man  who  was  thus  addressed  hurried 
below,  and  ere  long  he  had  brought  pistols 
and  cutlasses  enough  on  deck  for  all  the  men, 
and  the  crew  proceeded  at  once  to  arm  them- 
selves. 

During  this  time  Alfred  had  been  a  silent 
spectator  of  the  scene.  He  saw  that  a  fight 
with  the  schooner  was  inevitable,  and  his 
heart  sank  within  him  as  he  reflected  upon 
the  unfortunate  position  in  which  lie  was 
placed.  He  had  hoped  to  reach  the  coast  in 
safety,  and  there  he  determined  to  make 
good  his  escape,  if  possible ;  but  this  was  a 
contingency  he  had  not  anticipated. 

"  Come,  Alfred,  arm  yourself,"  said  Pet- 
trell. "  We  shall  want  your  good  arm  in  the 
coming  conflict." 

Alfred  hesitated. 

"  You'd  better,"  fell  in  low  tones  from 
Bronkon's  lips. 

A  reply  arose  to  Alfred's  lips;  but  he  sup- 
pressed it  and  went  to  the  arm-chest.  He 
took  a  cutlass  and  buckled  its  belt  about  his 
waist,  and  took  a  pair  of  the  heavy  pistols. 

"  There,"  said  Pettrell,  as  he  saw  the 
youth  armed,  "  now  we  will  initiate  you." 

Just  as  the  smuggler  spoke  there  came  a 
shot  from  the  schooner,  and  passed  through 
the  mainsail. 

"  Rather  a  pressing  invitation  for  us  to 
heave  to,"  said  Bronkon. 

"  And  I  think  I  shall  do  it,"  said  Pettrell. 
"  There  is  no  use  in  running  any  further. 
That  schooner  doesn't  carry  over  forty  men. 
We  are  twenty  six— twenty-seven  with  Al- 
fred— and  I  reckon  we  can  give  them  a  hard 
pull. 


22 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


Another  shot  from  the  pursuing  schooner, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  afterwards  the  brig 
was  hove  to. 

"  NoAv  let  her  come  up,"  said  the  captain, 
as  he  looked  around  on  his  men.  "Stand 
by,  now,  to  take  the  first  advantage,  my 
boys.  Remember  that  the  enemy  have  the 
trouble  of  boarding.  Have  both  pistols  out 
for  them  the  moment  they  show  themselves 
over  the  rail." 

Alfred  seemed  to  have  been  forgotten  in 
the  excitement  of  the  occasion.  He  stood 
near  the  larboard  quarter  rail,  and  he  was 
gazing  abstractedly  upon  the  schooner,  which 
was  now  almost  alongside. 

"  Brig  ahoy!  "  came  from  the  revenue 
cruiser. 

"  What  do  5'ou  want  ?  "  returned  Pettrell. 

"  I  want  you  to  surrender.  Isn't  that 
brig  the 'Adder'?" 

"Yes." 
■    "  Then  I'll  take  you  to  Liverpool." 

"  Come  and  try  it!  " 
'  ." Do  you  mean  to  show  fight?  " 

"  Come  and  seel  "  was  Pettrell's  laconic 
reply. 

The  schooner  was  too  near  to  use  her  guns, 
for  she  sat  much  lower  in  the  water  than  did 
the  brig,  and  she  ranged  up  on  the  starboard 
side.  Her  men  were  ready  for  the  leap,  and 
the  moment  she  touched  they  sprang  for  the 
siiiuggler's  deck. 

"  Fire!  "  shouted  Pettrell. 

The  smugglers  poured  in  their  volley  on 
the  boarders,  and  the  effect  was  destructive. 
Eight  of  the  schooner's  men  fell  back  upon 
their  own  deck,  and  for  a  few  moments  there 
was  a  suspension  of  further  action.  The 
schooner  had  now  ranged  fully  alongside; 
again  the  revenue  officer  urged  his  men  on. 

"  Fire!  "  shouted  Pettrell. 

Not  over  six  of  the  boarders  were  knocked 
back  by  this  fire,  and  the  rest,  to  the  num- 
ber of  twenty-seven,  came  rushing  over  the 
brig's  bulwarks.  The  smugglers  had  fired 
their  pistols,  and  ihey  now  had  only  their 
cutlasses  upon  which  to  depend,  for  they 
could  not  stop  to  reload.  The  boarders,  on 
the  other  hand,  had  their  pistols  loaded,  and 
they  used  them  to  good  effect. 


*'  Remember — the  gallows  if  you  are 
taken!"  cried  Bronkon,  as  he  swung  his 
heavy  cutlass  over  his  head  and  cut  down  a 
man  who  was  before  him.  "  At  them,  boys! 
Clear  the  '  Adder's'  deck  of  the  hounds!  " 

The  smugglers  fought  desperately,  and 
they  had  desperate  foes  to  contend  with. 
Pettrell  was  the  commander,  but  Bronkon 
was  the  genius  of  the  battle. 

Alfred  had  not  yet  moved.  The  clang  of 
the  cutlasses  rang  with  a  deafening  noise  in 
his  ears,  and  the  fumes  of  gunpowder  were 
hanging  about  him.  "While  he  stood  thus, 
a  great  burly  fellow  rushed  upon  him 

"  Ah,  you  smuggling  son  of  a  gun.''  yelled 
the  assailant,  "  take  that!  " 

It  was  a  fierce  blow  that  the  big  revenue 
man  aimed  at  Alfred's  head;  but  quick  as 
thought  the  blow  was  dodged.  With  an  in- 
stinctive movement  the  youth  drew  his  own 
cutlass.  His  pistols  were  yet  in  his  belt,  and 
both  of  them  were  charged.  Again  the 
assailant  swept  his  cutlass  about  his  head, 
and  his  blow  was  coming  down  upon  the 
youth.  Alfred's  brain  whirled  for  a  mo- 
ment with  its  conflicting  emotions;  but  the 
hope  of  life  triumphed.  That  was  not  a 
moment  to  think  of  causes  or  consequen- 
ces; he  caught  the  eye  of  the  stout  man, 
and  slipping  quickly  upon  one  side,  he  sank 
upon  his  knee  and  warded  off  the  blow. 
The  same  movement  of  the  cutlass  that 
threw  off  the  man's  weapon  brought  the 
point  up  against  his  bosom,  and  with  one 
powerful  thrust  Alfred  laid  his  adversary 
upon  the  deck. 

But  he  had  no  time  to  reflect  upon  what 
he  had  done,  for  at  that  moment  Bronkon 
backed  up  against  him  with  two  of  the  reve- 
nue men  driving  at  him.  The  smuggler 
mate  was  wounded  upon  the  left  ann,  and 
there  was  a  deep  gash  across  his  cheek, 
from  which  the  blood  was  flowing  copiously. 
He  looked  terrible  in  his  gory  features,  but 
he  was  failing  in  strength.  At  the  next 
blow  he  made,  his  cutlass  was  knocked  from 
his  grasp,  and  one  of  his  assailants  leaped 
upon  him,  and  bent  him  back  over  the  trunk 
of  the  cabin  companion-way,  while  the 
other  drove  at  him  with  his  cutlass. 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEI'ER   OF   THE   CH.VNNEL. 


"  God  have  mercy  I  "  ejaculated  Bronkon, 
in  frantic  tones;  and  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes 
rested  upon  Alfred. 

There  was  a  most  imploring  look  in  those 
rolling  eyes,  and  Alfred  could  not  withstand 
thoir  silent  appeal.  It  would  have  been 
fearful  to  see  Bronkon  killed  as  he  then  lay, 
and  the  youth  entertained  but  a  single 
thought  as  he  dwelt  upon  the  scene.  His 
still  reeking  cutlass  came  down  with  a  dead- 
ly blow  upon  the  head  of  him  who  was 
about  to  strike,  and  with  a  pistol  he  shot  the 
other  through  the  temple.  The  act  was 
more  impulsive  than  premeditated;  it  was 
the  silent  look  of  appeal  from  Bronkon  that 
influenced  his  soul,  and  whatever  might  be 
the  result,  he  could  not  resist  assistance  in 
the  man's  hour  of  desperate  need. 

Bronkon  arose  to  his  feet,  and  gazed  upon 
the  face  of  the  youth  to  whom  he  so  sig- 
nally owed  his  life. 

"  Alfred,  I  owe  you  one!  "  he  said. 

At  that  moment  the  boarders  cried  out  for 
quarter,  and  the  conflict  stopped.  Only 
twelve  of  the  revenue  men  were  alive  to 
return  to  their  schooner,  and  the  majority 
of  them  were  wounded.  The  brig  had  lost 
ten  men,  having  sustained  not  half  the  loss 
of  the  other.  Ere  long  the  vessels  were 
clear  of  each  other,  Pettrell  having  first, 
however,  chopped  the  schooner's  masts  off 
near  the  deck,  so  that  she  could  not  run  too 
soon  with  the  news. 

The  dead  were  sewed  up  in  hammocks 
and  lowered  over  the  side,  the  decks  washed, 
and  once  more  the  brig  turned  her  head 
towards  the  Kibble. 

"Alfred,"  said  Pettrell,  "you  behaved 
nobly." 

The  youth  started  from  the  painful  reverie 
into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  gazed  up  into 
the  face  of  the  smuggler  captain. 

"  Death  and  destruction!"  uttered  Bron- 
kon, "  but  the  youngster's  arm  served  me 
most  truly.  I  should  have  been  food  for 
sharks  before  now,  but  for  him.  Alfred, 
/  owe  you  one!  " 

•'  You  are  worth  more  than  I  thought," 
.ailded  Pettrell.  "  Fore  heaven,  if  you  don't 
lome  on  woll! " 


A  dark  shadow  passed  over  the  captain's 
face  as  he  spoke,  and  a  sort  of  demoniac 
triumph  rested  upon  his  features.  Alfred 
Harrold  turned  away  sick  at  heart.  He 
shuddered  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had 
done,  but  in  his  own  soul  he  felt  guiltless, 
and  he  knew  that  the  blame  must  rest  upon 
other  shoulders  than  his.  His  earnest  pray- 
er was,  that  he  might  get  clear  of  his  pres- 
ent state  of  dreadful  bondage. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ESCAPE.— A  STRANGE  ACQUAINTANCE. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  brig's 
anchor  dropped  at  the  mouth  of  the  Kibble, 
in  a  small  cove  near  the  outskirts  of  Kirk- 
ham,  and  as  soon  as  her  sails  were  clewed 
up,  a  blue  light  Avas  hoisted  at  her  foreti'uck, 
and  a  red  one  at  her  main.  It  was  nearly 
three  o'clock,  however,  before  any  notice 
was  taken  of  these  signals,  but  at  that  hour 
three  large  boats  came  alongside. 

"  You  are  a  long  while  getting  off,"  said 
Pettrell,  to  one  of  the  men  who  came  up 
from  a  boat. 

"  We  didn't  see  the  signals  till  an  hour 
ago,  and  then  we  had  to  collect  the  men." 

"  How  many  have  you  got  ?  " 

''What — men?" 

"Yes." 

"  There's  eighteen  of  us." 

"That  will  do;  but  we  must  hurry.  I 
have  only  fifteen  men  left.  We've  had  a 
brush  with  a  revenue  dog  today,  and  it's 
thinned  us  down.  Everj'thing  is  ready 
ashore,  isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  man  from  the  shore, 
who  was  none  other  than  the  smuggler's 
agent,  named  John  Pullen.  The  goods  can 
be  carried  right  to  town.  Three  of  the  ex- 
cise outriders  are  with  us,  so  that  coast  ia 
clear," 

Most  of  the  men  were  called  up  from  the 
boats,  a  "  yard  and  stay  "  whip-and-runner 
was  rigged,  and  then  all  hands  turned  to  at 
breaking  out  the  cargo,  which  was  hoisted 
into  the  boats  alongside.  The  men  worked 
smartly,  and    in   less   than    five  hours  the 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,    THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


whole    cargo   was  safely  landed  on  shore. 

Alfred  watched  in  vain  for  an  opportunity 
to  get  away  from  the  brig,  for  as  soon  as 
she  was  clear  she  got  up  her  anchor  and 
made  sail,  Pettrell  not  daring  to  I'emain  so 
near  the  scene  of  his  late  conflict.  Arrange- 
ments were  made  with  the  agent,  however, 
to  meet  the  brig  at  a  small  rocky  bay  on  the 
coast  of  Cumberland,  some  eight  miles  north 
of  Whitehaven,  and  towards  that  place  the 
smuggler  made  her  way  without  being  dis- 
turbed. 

The  wind  had  hauled  around  to  the  west- 
ward, and  the  brig  reached  her  destination 
early  in  the  evening,  and  shortly  after  the 
sails  had  been  furled  Pettrell  went  on  shore ; 
but  before  he  went,  however,  he  gave  some 
whispered  orders  to  his  mate. 

After  the  deck  had  been  cleared  up  a 
quarter  watch  was  set,  Bronkon  taking  care 
that  Alfred  was  stationed  with  himself.  In 
each  of  these  watches  there  were  only  three 
men,  and  they  wei^  merely  set  to  keep  a 
lookout  for  any  boats  that  might  come  off, 
and  also  to  look  after  the   moorings. 

The  small  bay  in  which  the  brig  lay  was 
not  over  a  mile  wide  at  the  mouth,  and 
where  the  smuggler  was  moored  the  dis- 
tance from  shore  to  shore  was  not  over  half 
a  mile.  She  lay  with  her  stern  in  towards 
the  extremity  of  the  bay,  which  was  about 
a  mile  distant.  On  either  shore  were  huge 
masses  of  rocks,  with  only  an  occasional 
break  of  .sandy  beach,  while  beyond  the 
country  vras  hilly  and  well  covered  with 
stunted  oak.  Not  far  from  the  head  of  the 
inlet.  Alfred  had  noticed,  as  the  brig  first 
entered,  a  number  of  small  houses,  and 
towards  these  the  captain  had  gone. 

Pettrell  had  taken  seven  men  with  him  in 
the  boat,  so  that  only  nine  were  left  on 
board,  and  Bronkon  set  them  in  three 
watches,  with  two  hours  to  each  watch.  His 
own  watch  came  from  ten  to  midnight,  and 
with  him  were  Waffon  and  Alfred.  Only  a 
few  remarks  passed  between  Bronkon  and 
the  youth  during  the  two  hours.  The  form- 
er seemed  ill  at  ease  in  the  presence  of  the 
lad  who  had  saved  his  life,  and  the  latter 
was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts. 


Midnight  came  and  the  watch  was  relieved. 
Alfred  still  bunked  in  the  cabin,  and  thither 
he  went,  Bronkon  and  Waffon  keeping  him 
company.  The  youth  turned  into  his  berth, 
but  it  was  not  to  sleep.  He  lay  so  that  he 
could  see  the  mate,  and  he  at  length  became 
assured  that  that  iudividual  was  watching 
him.  He  remembered  the  whisperings  of 
the  captain,  and  he  doubted  not  that  he  him- 
self had  been  the  object  of  it,  and  that 
Bronkon  had  been  instructed  to  have  an  eye 
to  all  his  movements. 

Waffon  was  soon  asleep,  but  the  mate  still 
kept  his  eyes  open,  and  ever  anon  Alfred 
could  see  their  bright  balls  shining  on  him. 
At  first  the  youth  thought  it  might  be  the 
pain  of  Bronkon's  wounds  that  made  him 
thus  wakeful;  but  then  he  knew  those 
wounds  had  not  kept  him  from  his  duty,  and 
besides,  he  showed  no  signs  of  suffering. 
At  length  Alfred  turned  over  in  his  bunk 
and  gave  a  sleepy  yawn,  and  ere  long  he 
began  to  breathe  that  long,  heavy,  sonorous 
breath  peculiar  to  sound  sjeep.  The  ruse 
took,  for  ere  many  minutes  there  was  a 
nestling  in  the  mate's  berth,  as  though  his 
limbs  were  being  composed  for  rest,  and  not 
long  afterwards  he  began  to  snore. 

Alfred  turned  carefully  over  in  his  bunk 
and  looked  forth.  By  the  dim  light  of  the 
hanging-lamp,  one  small  wick  of  which  was 
burning,  he  could  see  that  Bronkon  was 
asleep.  He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  he 
slipped  noiselessly  from  his  berth.  With 
quick,  self-possessed  movements  he  rolled 
his  heavier  clothing  into  a  small  bundle,  and 
tied  it  up  in  a  handkerchief,  and  then  he 
crept  to  the  cabin  windows.  They  swung  on 
hinges  at  the  top,  and  opened  outward  by 
means  of  a  lanyard  rove  through  an  eye 
above  the  frame. 

The  youth  unhasped  one  of  the  windows 
and  carefully  hoisted  it.  There  was  a  creak- 
ing of  the  hinge,  and  Bronkon  moved  in  his 
bunk.  Alfred  still  held  the  lanyard,  and  re- 
mained quiet,  and  again  the  mate  settled  in- 
to his  undisturbed  slumber. 

The  youth  listened  for  a  moment  to  hear 
if  the  watch  were  moving  on  deck  and  he 
had   the   satisfaction  of  hearing  all  three  of 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


2> 


them  conversing  in  one  of  the  gangways. 
He  knew  there  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost, 
and  taking  his  bundle  between  his  teeth,  he 
crept  stealthily  out  through  the  window, 
from  which  he  could  just  reach  the  falls 
.of  the  starboard  davit.  This  had  been  left 
hanging  when  the  captain's  boat  had  been 
lowered,  and  from  its  lower  block  the  youth 
could  easily  drop  into  the  water  without  a 
noise,.  Upon  the  sill  he  waited  a  moment, 
but  no  one  had  been  aroused;  and  with  a 
fervent  prayer  upon  his  lips  he  reached  forth 
till  he  could  grasp  the  fall,  and  then  he  let 
his  body  swing  off.  There  was  a  slight 
creeking  of  the  davit  sheeves,  but  no  one 
was  startled  by  the  sound,  and  noiselessly  he 
let  himself  down  into  the  water. 

For  some  minutes  Alfred  worked  his  way 
very  slowly  from  the  brig;  but  at  length  he 
took  courage  and  struck  boldly  out  for  the 
southern  shore  of  the  inlet.  It  was  too  dark 
for  those  on  board  the  brig  to  see  him  now, 
for  Alfred  could  but  distinguish  the  bare  out- 
lines of  the  vessel,  and  without  more  fear  of 
detection,  he  swam  on  with  all  his  strength. 
The  distance  was  not  great,  and  the  brave 
fellow  reached  the  shore  in  safety,  happen- 
ing luckily  to  come  upon  one  of  the  sand 
bars  that  made  out  from  between  the  rocks. 

AVhen  he  reached  the  rising  ground  he 
found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  make  his  way 
through  the  shrubby  wood;  but  having  put 
on  his  outer  clothing  and  drawing  on  his 
boots,  he  pushed  on.  He  had  some  idea  of 
the  direction  of  Whitehaven  road,  for  he 
knew  that  it  was  not  over  a  mile  from  the 
head  of  the  bay;  so  he  took  a  south-easterly 
course,  thinking  to  strike  the  highway  at  a 
safe  distance  from  the  houses  he  had  seen 
near  the  shore. 

For  two  hours  Alfred  pushed  on  through 
the  intricate  wood,  and  just  as  he  was  be- 
•.'inning  to  despair  of  finding  the  road,  he 
espied  an  opening  ahead.  When  he  reached 
it.  he  found  himself  in  the  highway  he  was 
seeking.  In  half  an  hour  more  he  reached 
the  market  town  of  Whitehaven— but  he  did 
not  stop.  None  of  the  people  were  yet 
stirring,  and  he  hastened  on  through  the 
place,   thinking  that   ho    would    find   some 


peasant's  cot  where  he  could  rest  and  re- 
fresh himself. 

When  Alfred  had  fairly  cleared  from  the 
town,  the  first  red  streaks  of  morning  were 
rising  in  the  east,  and  ere  long  daylight  was 
dancing  over  the  country.  From  the  top  of 
a  small  eminence  the  youth  saw  another 
large  town  before  him,  which  could  not 
have  been  over  five  miles  from  the  one  he 
had  left.  To  the  right,  just  west  of  the 
town,  he  saw  the  massive  ruins  of  an  old 
castle,  lifting  its  ragged  battlements  against 
the  sky,  the  ivy-bound  towers  of  which  were 
catching  the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  while 
ahead  he  saw  the  banks  of  a  murmuring 
river.  He  knew  the  town  must  be  Egre- 
mont — that  the  river  was  Eden,  and  that  the 
smugglers  had  secret  agents  in  the  place. 

Through  Egremont  Alfred  determined  to 
make  his  way  without  stopping.  It  was 
nearly  six  o'clock  when  he  reached  the 
town,  and  it  was  half -past  six  when  he  had 
cleared  its  southern  confines.  He  felt  hun- 
gry and  fatigued,  but  he  dared  not  stop 
within  the  town.  At  eight  o'clock  he  came 
to  an  inn — a  small,  out-of-the-way  place, 
and  here  he  stopped.  He  had  some  money 
with  him — money  which  he  had  been  col- 
lecting to  serve  him  in  case  of  need— so  he 
had  no  need  of  suffering  with  want. 

The  landlord  of  the  inn  was  not  a  type  of 
landlords  generally,  for  he  was  a  thin,  sal- 
low-visaged  man;  but  yet  he  appeared  good- 
natured  enough  for  all  necessary  business 
purposes.  Alfred  made  known  his  wants, 
and  a  substantial  breakfast  was  soon  pre- 
pared for  him.  Just  as  he  sat  down  he 
heard  a  rattling  of  wheels  at  the  door,  and 
upon  looking  out  at  the  window,  he  saw  a 
post  chaise  that  had  driven  up. 

"  Young  man."  said  the  landlord,  opening 
the  door  of  the  room  in  which  our  hero  was 
eating,  "you'll  have  to  make  room  for  a 
companion  at  the  table,  for  a  gentleman  has 
just  come  as  wants  his  breakfast  in  a  great 
hurry." 

Without  stopping  to  receive  Alfred's  an- 
swer, the  landlord  introduced  the  stranger, 
and  then  went  for  more  victuals. 

The    new-comer  was   a   man  .some   .xixty 


THE  STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


years  of  age,  dressed  in  a  garb  of  fine  blue 
broadcloth,  with  heavy  gold  buttons.  He 
wore  a  cap  with  a  heavy  gold  baud,  and  a 
superb  sword  was  hanging  from  a  silken  belt 
about  his  waist.  Alfred  knew  that  the  but- 
tons bore  the  arms  of  the  royal  navy,  but  he 
was  at  a  loss  to  make  out  the  rank  of  the 
wearer. 

"  Beautiful  morning,"'  said  the  stranger, 
seeming  raised  to  a  communicative  mood  by 
the  flavor  of  his  coffee,  which  lie  sipped 
with  evident  relish. 

"Very,"  returned  Alfred,  with  com- 
posure. 

The  old  gentleman  ate  a  piece  of  buttered 
toast  very  slowly  for  a  hungry  man,  and  at 
intervals  he  looked  inquisitively  into  Alfred's 
face. 

"  Are  you  from  the  north  ?  "  he  asked,  as 
he  helped  himself  to  a  second  slice  of  toast. 

'*  Yes,"  returned  Alfred,  with  some  em- 
barrassment. 

Again  the  stranger  looked  into  the  youth's 
face  more  earnestly  than  before. 

"  Do  you  belong  about  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  thought  not.  You  look  more  of  the 
southern  blood." 

Alfred  returned  the  earnest  gaze  of  his 
companion,  and  he  soon  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  had  nothing  to  fear,  for  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  kind  looking,  and  his  voice  was 
smooth  and  mild. 

"  You  mustn't  think  me  impertinent,"  re- 
sumed the  stranger,  "  but  really  I  would 
like  to  know  from  what  part  of  England  you 
come?" 

*'If  I  were  at  home,  sir,  I  should  be  in 
Devonshire." 

"Ah,  then  you  were  born  in  Devon- 
shire ?  " 

The  speaker  seemed  disappointed. 

Alfred  hesitated.  At  length  a  vague  idea 
broke  over  his  mind  that  the  stranger  might 
have  discovered  some  family  likeness  in  his 
countenance,  and  a  dim  ray  of  hope  broke 
in  upon  his  soul. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  was  born  in  Devon- 
shire, sir;  but  I  was  brought  up  in  that 
county." 


The  old  man  sat  down  his  coffee-cup  and 
wiped  his  mouth,  and  then  he  looked  again 
into  Alfred's  face. 

"'  I'm  making  myself  interested  on  a  short 
acquaintance,"  he  said,  while  a  faint  smile 
rested  upon  his  features;  "  but  the  truth  is, 
your  features  put  me  in  mind  of  one  whom 
I  once  knew.  Will  you  tell  me  what  you 
know  of  your  birth-place  ?  " 

••  Nothing,  sir,"  returned  Alfred,  in  an 
earnest,  anxious  tone. 

''  What  of  your  parents,  then  ?  " 

••  Nothing." 

•'  Of  your  early  life,  then  ?  " 

•'  At  four  years  of  age,  sir,  I  was  cast 
away  upon  Little  Devon  Head.  I  was  saved 
from  the  wreck  by  the  light-keeper  there, 
and  with  him  I  lived  till  about  a  year  ago.'' 

•'  There  isn't  much  light  in  that,"  uttered 
the  old  gentleman.  ">You  don't  know  whom 
you  were  with  previous  to  your  being  cast 
away  ?  " 

•^  Yes,  sir.  It  was  a  man  who  called  him- 
self my  father.  His  name  was  Marrok 
Pettrell." 

•'  Now  you  talk!  "  exclaimed  the  stranger, 
with  a  sudden  energy.  "  I'  faith,  I'm  not 
so  wild  in  my  reading  features  as  I  had 
feared.  Did  you  ever  come  across  a  com- 
panion that  this  Pettrell  had,  a  fellow  named 
Mark  Bronkon  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  those  two  chaps 
are  now  ?  " 

For  some  time  Alfred  remained  silent. 
He  thought  over  the  events  of  the  past,  and 
at  length  he  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  his 
whole  story  to  the  man  before  him.  "'The 
recital  could  in  no  way  endanger  himself, 
and  it  might  benefit  him;  so  he  related  the 
principal  events  of  the  past  year,  together 
with  the  present  Avhereabouts  of  the  smug- 
gler, and  his  recent  escape  from  her. 

The  old  gentleman  thumped  upon  the 
table  with  the  handle  of  his  knife  for  several 
moments  after  Alfred  had  concluded  his 
story. 

"  Now  tell  me,  sir,"  said  the  youth,  with 
trembling  voice,  "  what  you  know  of  me  or 
mine  ?  ■' 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,    THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL.         27 


"  That  scamp  of  a  Pettrell  is  no  more  your 
father  than  I  am." 

'*  But  of  my  fathei- — my  Irue  father — can 
you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  Not  anything  that  you  would  wish  at 
present  to  know." 

"  Anything — anything  wouUl  hless  me." 

'•  You  are  not  so  sure  of  that,  my  youns 
man,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  arose 
from  the  table.  "  I  will  help  you,  however; 
and  in  the  end  I  think  you  will  find  I  am 
the  most  wise." 


chaise  is  waiting,  and  I  must  he  off.  You 
can  easily  reach  Ravenglass  by  noon,  and 
there  you  will  find  a  coach  for  Lancaster. 
When  there  you  will  take  the  mail  cor.ch  ou 
the  great  Manchester  road,  and  your  route 
will  be  direct.  Don't  fail,  now,  to  do  as  I 
have  hid.  I  will  look  up  matters  for  you 
when  I  return.  Have  you  money  enough  to 
carrv  vou  through  ?  " 

••Yes,  sir."   ^ 

•'Then  take  care  of  yourself.  You  will 
find  your  confidence  in  me  worth  more  than 


ALFRED'S   BREAKFAST,    AND   A    STRANGE   ACQUAINTANCE. 


He  touched  the  table  bell  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  landlord  soon  made  his  appearance. 

"Let  me  have  pen,  ink  and  paper,"  said 
the  stranger. 

The  materials  were  soon  brought,  and  the 
old  gentleman  .sat  down  to  the  tal)le  and 
wrote.  "When  the  note  was  finished  he  fold- 
ed and  directed  it. 

"  Here,""  he  said,  •'  take  this  and  make 
your  way  to  London  without  delay.  Here 
is  my  card.  Go  to  my  house,  hand  the  note 
to  my  secretary,  and  there  you  will  remain 
till  1  return.  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  Car- 
lisle, and  shall  l)e  back  in  two  week-;.     Mv 


you    think    for.      Good-by,    till   I   see    you 
again." 

.Til e  old  gentleman  left  the  room  a.s  he 
spoke  and  entered  his  chaise.  The  postilion 
whipped  up  the  horses,  and  they  moved  off 
at  a  quick  pace.  Alfred  watched  the  vehi- 
cle till  it  was  lost  to  his  sight,  and  then  lie 
bent  his  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  remained  for 
a  long  time  in  a  state  of  trembling,  ambigu- 
ous thought.  "  Who  am  I,  who  is  my  fath- 
er? What  can  tills  stranger  know  of  my 
parentage  ?  "  These  questions  kept  con- 
stantly recurring,  to  the  exclusion  of  every 
ollior  thouirbt. 


■28 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

DAYLIGHT  VAJflSHES  AGAIJf. 

Alfred  was  at  length  aroused  from  his 
reverie  by  the  voice  of  his  landlord,  who 
wished  to  know  if  he  had  finished  his  break- 
fast. 

"Zounds!"  uttered  the  publican,  as  he 
began  to  clear  away  the  dishes,  "•  you've 
had  an  honor.  I  offered  to  set  the  admiral 
another  table,  but  he  said  he'd  eat  with  you. 
He's  as  kind-hearted  a  man  as  there  be  be- 
tween here  and  Land's  End.  Engaged  you 
in  his  service,  haint  he  ?  " 

"  Service,"  repeated  Alfred,  looking  up 
into  the  landlord's  face. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  Sir  William  speak  about 
your  stopping  with  him  ?  " 

"Ah.  yes.  I  understand.  Yes — yes," 
returned  Alfred,  who  now  saw  what  the  in- 
quisitive landlord  was  after. 

"Lucky  fellow — zounds!  Wish  I  was  in 
hi?  service.  Comes  up  here  everj-  summer 
to  visit  his  estates  in  Cumberland.  Gives 
me  a  guinea,  always." 

As  s(»on  as  Alfred  got  clear  of  the  land- 
lord, he  examined  the  card  he  had  received 
from  the  old  gentleman.  In  one  corner  was 
a  seal  bearing  a  coat  of  arms,  and  below  it 
waf  written  with  a  pencil: — 

Sir  William  Beext— Admikal, 
13  Hanover  Square,  London. 

The  note  was  addressed  to  •'  Donald 
Mclvar,  Secretary,"  and  bore  the  same 
direction. 

Of  course  Alfred  could  only  wonder  what 
was  to  be  the  end  of  all  this,  and  of  course 
he  resolved  to  make  his  waj'  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible to  London.  He  felt  perfectly  assured 
that  the  old  baronet  had  not  and  would  not 
deceive  him.  He  settled  his  bill  for  break- 
fast, and  asked  what  time  the  stage-coach 
would  leave  Ravenglass  for  the  south. 

"  Half  an  hour  after  noon,"  returned  the 
landlord.  "  But  you  can  have  a  post-chai:<e 
from  here." 

"That  wouldn't  help  me,  for  I  should 
have  to  wait  at  Ravenglass  for  the  coach." 

"  Certain." 


"  Then  I'll  go  on  foot.  I  shall  have  a 
better  chance  to  see  the  country." 

"  Well,  you'll  reach  there  afore  the  coach, 
easy  enough." 

Shortly  afterwards  the  youth  set  forward, 
and  as  soon  as  he  had  got  clear  of  the  inn 
he  quickened  his  pace.  At  the  distance  of 
two  miles  he  came  to  a  point  where  the 
road  entered  a  deep  wood,  and  he  could 
hear  the  low  murmuring  of  the  sea  as  it 
broke  upon  the  rocks  of  the  coast  to  his 
right.  He  had  been  in  the  wood  but  a 
short  time  when  he  saw  two  men  seated  on 
a  rock  by  the  roadside,  at  some  distance- 
ahead.  They  were  two  stout  gpuntrymen 
by  their  looks,  and  without  fear  the  youth 
approached  them.  There  was  a  quick  whis- 
pering between  them  as  Alfred  came  near, 
and  when  he  had  reached  the  place,  they 
slipped  down  from  the  rock  and  joined  him. 

'•  Good  morning,"  said  one  of  the  men. 

Alfred  returned  the  compliment  without 
stopping,  and  the  two  men  kept  along  with 
him. 

"  How  far  are  you  from  this  morning  ?  " 

"  From  Egremont,"  returned  the  youth, 
showing  by  his  manner  that  he  was  not  de- 
sirous of  company. 

'■  Belong  in  Egremont  ?  " 

'-No." 

The  two  men  changed  significant  glances. 

'■•  D'ye  know  anything  'bout  the  '  Ad- 
der'?" 

"  '  Adder '!  "  repeated  Alfred  with  a  start. 

'-Yes." 

•'  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

''Mean  the  'Adder'.  Don't  you  know 
her  ?  " 

Our  hero  began  to  tremble.  The  men 
were  both  strangers  to  him,  and  yet  he 
feared  they  had  some  clew  to  his  real  char- 
acter. He  determined  to  keep  his  own 
counsel,  however. 

'•  If  you  will  speak  more  plainly,"  he  re- 
turned, '•  perhaps  I  can  understand  you." 

He  could  see  that  the  men  exchanged 
glances  again. 

"  S'pose  we  was  excisemen,  or  somethin' 
o'  that  sort,  couldn't  you  tell  us  where  the 
•  Adder'  was  ?  " 


THE   tSTOKM   CHILDREN:   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


•» 


"  No.    Does  that  satisfy  you  ?  " 

''  Not  quite,  'cause  I  believe  you  know  all 
'bout  her." 

Alfred  felt  like  knocking  the  fellow  down, 
but  he  restrained  his  passion. 

■'Look  here,"  said  the  second  man,  "  do 
ya  not  know  that  the  '  Adder  '  is  a  smug- 
irler  ?  " 

"  Look  ye,  felloAVS;  what  do  you  mean  by 
your  impertinent  questions  ?  If  you  have 
business  this  way,  I  beg  you  will  pass  on  and 
b^iive  me  to  myself." 

As  our  hero  spoke,  the  two  men  fell  be- 
lli nd,  and  he  hurried  forward.  He  could 
hear  the  fellows  earnestly  talking,  and  he 
noticed  that  they  followed  him.  A  short 
distance  further  brought  him  to  an  abrupt 
turn  in  the  road,  and  some  fifteen  or  twenty 
rods  ahead,  he  saw  two  more  men  just  com- 
ing out  from  the  wood  from  the  direction  of 
the  sea.  They  stopped  as  ihey  noticed  the 
youth,  and  those  behind  seemed  to  make 
some  signal  to  them. 

Alfred  now  began  to  feel  sure  that  some 
plan  was  on  foot  for  his  recapture.  He  had 
no  weapon,  and  his  heart  sank  within  him 
as  he  thought  of  being  carried  back  to  the 
brig.  The  wood  offered  him  no  means  of 
e!<cape,  and  with  a  trembling  step  he  kept 
on.  The  two  men  who  were  ahead  came 
out  into  the  road  as  he  approached,  and  one 
of  them  stepped  directly  in  front  of  him. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  Alfred. 

"  Want  to  ask  ye  a  question.  Aint  you 
Alfred  Pettrell  ?  " 

"  No!  " 

''  Harrold,  ye  know  the  captain  said  he'd 
call  hisself,"  interposed  the  other.  •'  Aint 
yer  name  Harrold  ?  " 

Alfred  gathered  all  his  strength  for  one 
trial.  With  one  blow  of  his  fist  he  knocked 
the  man  down  in  front  of  him,  and  then  set 
off  at  the  top  of  his  speed. 

"Stop!  stop!"  yelled  the  men,  as  they 
started  in  pursuit. 

Alfred  turned  his  head  and  saw  that  the 
other  two  had  come  up,  and  that  the  man  he 
had  levelled  was  getting  upon  his  feet. 

•'Stop,  or  we'll  fire  into  youl  "  shouted 
one  of  the  pursuers. 


The  youth  did  not  stop,  but  rather  lu- 
creased  his  speed. 

"Stop,  or  we'll  fire!" 

No  notice  was  taken  of  the  threat,  and  in 
a  moment  more  a  pistol  ball  came  whizzing 
by  Alfred's  head. 

Another  ball  came — and  another,  but  the 
youth  was  unharmed.  He  was  satisfied  that 
he  could  easily  outrun  his  pursuers,  and  he 
kept  on.  Just  after  the  third  ball  whizzed 
by  him  he  turned  his  head,  and  saw  that  the 
fourth  man  had  stopped  and  was  levelling 
his  heavy  pistol.  He  heard  the  report,  and 
on  the  same  instant  he  felt  a  twinge  in  the 
calf  of  his  leg.  He  ran  a  few  steps  further, 
but  his  leg  failed  him,  and  he  could  only 
limp  along,  and  ere  long  a  heavy. hand  was 
laid  upon  his  shoulder.  •    . 

"  I  guess  you  won't  run  much  further,  my 
youug  covey,"  exclaimed  the  fellow  who  had 
stopped  him. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  want  of  me,"  said  Al- 
fred, as  he  found  the  four  men  gathered 
about  him. 

"  We  want  you  to  go  back  where  ye  run 
away  from  last  night.  Capt'n  Pettrell  don't 
think  you  served  him  a  werry  pooty  trick." 

"  And  you  are  deputized  to  carry  me  back 
to  the  brig,"  said  Alfred,  in  a  desponding 
tone. 

"  Sartin.  That's  what  we've  come  for;  *o 
you'll  just  go  along  with  us  to  the  shore." 

Alfred  saw  that  his  captors  were  not  the 
kind  of  men  with  whom  any  argument  or 
persuasion  would  be  profitable,  and  he  also 
saw  that  his  hope  of  escape  was  entirely  cut 
off,  so  he  turned  slowly  about,  and  was  led 
back.  He  learned  that  his  escape  had  been 
discovered  at  two  o'clock,  when  the  watch 
was  relieved,  and  that  word  had  been  im- 
mediately sent  on  shore  to  the  captain,  who 
at  once  sent  the  four  men  in  a  sail-boat  to 
make  their  way  down  the  coast  to  a  point 
south  of  the  mouth  of  the  Eden;  and  from 
thence  they  had  directions  to  go  on  shore 
and  lie  in  wait  on  the  road.  A  fresh  and 
favorable  breeze  had  brought  the  boat  down 
in  good  season,  and  the  men  had  be«^u  on 
the  watch  over  an  hour  when  the  youth 
came  along.      Other  men  had  been  sent  in 


30 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL, 


different  directions,  but  the  bird  had  been 
caught  in  the  very  direction  Pettrell  had 
anticipated. 

Alfred's  leg  pained  him  considerably,  and 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  made  his  way 
along.  At  first  he  refused  the  assistance 
that  was  tendered  him;  but  ere  long  he  was 
glad  to  accept  of  it,  and  with  a  stout  arm  on 
either  side  to  support  him,  he  found  his 
labor  lighter  When  the  party  arrived  at 
the  rock  where  Alfred  met  the  first  two  men, 
they  turned  into  the  wood  and  moved 
toward  the  sea-shore. 

''  You  mustn't  blame  us,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  as  soon  as  they  had  turned  out  from 
the  highway.  "  As  sure  as  heaven  we  are 
sorry  you  be  hurt,  but  we  couldn't  help  it. 
'Twould  not  do  for  j'ou  to  run  away  and 
blow,  yer  see." 

"  I  had  no  intention  of  betraying" 

Alfred  hesitated,  for  he  remembered  what 
he  had  told  Sir  William. 

"  Pettrell  was  afeared  you  would,"  said 
the  man  who  had  spoken  before.  "  B'ut  you 
know  we  couldn't  help  what  we  did.  You 
wouldn't  stop." 

The  youth  doubted  whether  the  speaker 
was  moved  by  sympathy,  or  whether  he  was 
only  afraid  Pettrell  would  blame  him  for  the 
wound  that  had  been  given  to  the  prisoner. 
At  any  rate,  the  men  did  not  seem  to  be 
really  evil-disposed,  only  they  were  rough 
and  uncouth  by  nature  and  education,  and 
their  connection  with  the  smugglers  rendered 
them  fearful  of  detection,  which  Pettrell  had 
given  them  to  understand  would  follow  from 
Alfred's  being  at  liberty. 

At  length  the  sea-coast  was  reached,  and 
Alfred  was  assisted  into  the  boat  which  lay 
there.  His  leg  now  began  to  swell,  and  the 
pain  was  intense.  The  ball  seemed  to  be 
lodged  among  the  cords,  for  the  least  move- 
ment rendered  the  torture  excruciating,  but 
he  bore  it  the  best  way  he  could.  Occasion- 
ally, as  the  boat  was  on  her  course,  he  dipped 
his  hand  overboard  and  bathed  the  parts 
about  the  wound,  and  that  afforded  him 
•slight  relief. 

It  was  an  hour  after  noon  when  the  boat 
reached  the  brig,  and  instead  of  finding  him- 


self on  the  Lancashire  stage,  our  hei.'o  was 
once  more  doomed  to  his  prison  house  on 
board  the  smuggler. 

"  Wounded,  eh  ?  "  uttered  Pettrell,  as  the 
poor  youth  was  helped  over  the  gangway. 

"  We  couldn't  help  it,  sir,"  said  one  of  the 
captors.  "  He  run,  and  we  couldn't  do  any- 
thing but  wing  him." 

"  Good  enough  for  him,"  said  Pettrell. 

For  an  instant  Alfred  forgot  his  pain  in 
the  fire  of  indignation  that  burned  in  his 
bosom,  as  he  met  the  cold,  demoniac  look  of 
the  smuggler  captain. 

"  It  won't  be  safe  for  you  to  try  that  game 
again,  my  boy,"  continued  Pettrell.  "The 
pitcher  that  goes  to  the  well  once  too  often 
gets  broken!  Once  more  will  be  once  too 
often  for  you  to  try  this  game." 

Alfred  made  no  reply,  but  groaned  in  pain. 

"  I  guess  the  ball's  in  his  leg  now,"  said 
the  fellow  who  had  fired  the  pistol  that  did 
the  damage. 

"  Here,  Waffon,  you  are  surgeon  enough 
for  this  job,"  said  Pettrell.  "  Take  the 
youngster  below,  and  fix  him  up  the  best 
way  you  can.  If  the  ball  is  there,  get  it  out. 
You've  done  worse  jobs  than  that." 

Waffon  acknowledged  the  compliment,  and 
then  followed  Alfi'cd  down  into  the  cabin. 

The  smuggler  was  not  so  bad  a  surgeon  as 
might  have  been  supposed  from  the  coarse 
remark  of  Pettrell,  for  he  was  careful  in  his 
handling  of  the  wound,  and  he  displayed 
much  skill  in  the  use  of  the  simple  instru- 
ments he  had  at  hand.  The  ball  was  found 
lodged  among  the  large  tendons  just  below 
the  back  part  of  the  knee  joint,  and  Waffon 
extracted  it  with  but  little  cutting.  Then 
the  wound  was  bandaged,  and  Alfred  was 
helped  into  his  berth. 

It  was  three  weeks  before  our  hero  could 
walk  comfortably,  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time  the  brig  was  got  under  way  for  sea. 
Alfred  heard  that  there  had  been  a  disturb- 
ance of  some  kind  on  shore,  in  which  the 
smugglers  bore  a  part,  and  he  heard  the 
name  of  Sir  William  used;  but  most  of  the 
excisemen  in  the  vicinity  were  hired  to  the 
smugglers'  interest,  and  the  affair  had  passed 
off  without  much  trouble. 


THE  STOKM  CniLDREX;  OK,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


81 


The  brig  had  taken  in  a  large  stock  of  pro- 
visions, aud  her  complement  of  men  was 
again  made  up  to  its  former  number.  Al- 
fred had  learned  that  the  smugirler's  desti- 
nation was  again  for  the  East  Indies,  and  he 
saw  another  inevitable  year  of  galling  bond- 
age before  him. 


CmiPTER   X. 


PIRATES. 


WuEN  the  smugglers  reached  the  Indies 
they  commenced  a  new  system  of  operations, 
A  lurcrative  opportunity  was  offered  to  them 
for  the  smuggling  of  opium  into  Canton. 
Their  opium  was  mostly  procured  in  Cal- 
cutta, and  for  two  years  they  follajv^ed  this 
business. 

Those  were  two  long  years  for  Alfred 
Harrold.  Not  once  during  that  time  had  he 
set  his  foot  on  shore,  nor  was  there  a  single 
opportunity  for  his  escape.  He  had  become 
sick  aud  weary,  and  more  than  once  he  had 
almost  determined  to  join  fully  with  his 
companions;  but  the  memory  of  his  youth- 
ful hopes  still  clung  about  his  soul,  and  he 
had  conquered  the  feeling.  He  had  breast- 
ed the  storm,  and  his  face  was  still  turned 
towards  the  beacon  of  his  young  aspirations. 
Pettrell  was  the  same  as  ever— stern  and  un- 
feeling—and seeming  to  exult  in  the  misery 
he  saw  Alfred  suffering. 

Mark  Bronkon  scarcely  ever  spoke  to  the 
young  man,  except  when  business  required 
it.  He  had  grown  more  morose  in  his  man- 
ner, aud  his  features  were  still  darker  in  their 
shadowing  of  passion. 

Alfred  had  seen  his  nineteenth  birthday, 
and  he  was  fast  verging  towards  the  sum  of 
life  that  was  to  make  up  his  twenty  years  on 
earth.  He  had  grown  more  of  the  man  in 
form  and  feature,  and  there  were  few  on 
board  the  brig  who  could  equal  him  in  phys- 
ical strength.  lie  had  almost  forgotten  the 
circumstance  of  having  met  Sir  William 
Brent,  and  when  he  thought  of  it,  it  was 
as  an  eve  ■^;t  of  the  past  which  might  never 
have  effect  m  the  future. 
One  day.  while  the   brig  lay  at  the  outer 


extremity  of  Canton  Bay,  three  dark-look- 
ing men  came  on  board  and  went  with  Pet- 
trell and  Bronkon  into  the  cabin,  where 
they  remained  in  close  consultation  for  half 
an  hour.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  Waffon 
was  called  down,  and  soon  afterwards  ten 
more  of  the  men  were  sent  for.  When  the 
meeting  was  broken  up  the  three  strangers 
departed,  and  there  were  strange  and  myste- 
rious whisperings  about  the  deck.  Alfred 
mistrusted  that  some  new  scheme  of  mis- 
chief was  on  foot,  but  he  could  get  no  clue 
to  its  character. 

At  night  the  brig's  anchors  were  hove  up 
and  sail  was  made,  and  the  next  morning 
she  was  anchored  in  a  small  bay  of  one  of 
the  Larron  Islands,  some  eighty  miles  south 
of  Canton.  JSTbt  far  from  where  the  smug- 
gler had  anchored  lay  an  old  dismasted  brig, 
and  ere  long  a  boat  put  off  from  her  side 
containing  the  three  men  who  had  visited 
the  "Adder  "  the  previous  day. 

Another  consultation  was  held,  and  when 
the  strangers  left  the  brig,  Bronkon  and 
Waffon  went  with  them.  In  two  hours 
more  Alfred  saw  that  heavy  guns  were  be- 
ing hoisted  out  from  the  wreck,  and  ere  long 
they  were  brought  alongside  of  the  smug- 
gler. The  youth  experienced  a  stunning 
sensation  as  the  thought  first  broke  upon 
him  that  Pettrell  was  about  to  turn  pirate. 

Before  night,  ten  guns  had  been  brought 
on  board  the  brig,  and  rigged  upon  their 
carriages.  They  were  eighteen  pounders, 
and  port-holes  were  knocked  open  to  receive 
them.  Large  boxes  of  ammunition  were 
brought  from  the  wreck,  together  with  two 
large  chests  of  small  arms;  and,  to  cap  the 
climax,  fourteen  strange  men  were  added  to 
the  brig's  crew  I 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  brig  was 
again  got  under  way,  and  as  soon  as  she  was 
fairly  clear  of  the  island,  Pettrell  called  Al- 
fred into  the  cabin.  Bronkon  was  there, 
but  no  one  else  besides  those  three. 

"  Alfred,"  said  the  captain,  "  can  you  im- 
agine the  natm-e  of  the  business  we  are 
^oiug  at  ?  " 

The  young  man  had  no  fear  of  Pettrell 
now;  he   had   raised  himself  above  the  fear 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


of •  one  so  base,  and  he  replied  calmly: — 

"  I  have  suspected  your  plans,  sir;  but  I 
may  be  wrong." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Let  us  hear  what  you 
have  suspected." 

"  I  have  suspected  that  you  were  about  to 
commit  the  crime  piracy." 

Alfred  could  not  repress  the  cold  shudder 
that  crept  over  him  as  he  pronounced  that 
terrible  word,  and  a  wicked  smile  broke  over 
the  features  of  Marrok  Pettrell. 

.  You  have  hit  the  nail  exactly  on  the 
head,"  returned  the  latter;  "  and  since  that 
part  of  the  business  is  disposed  of,  I'll  whis- 
per a  few  words  of  counsel  in  your  ear. 

The  captain  glanced  at  Bronkon,  and  then 
while  a  look  of  deadly  meaning  settled  upon 
his  hard  features,  he  continued:  — 

"I  know,  my  young  man,  that  you  are 
hardly  reconciled  yet  to  the  company  you 
keep,  and  I  often  see  that  soft  morality  of 
yours  making  its  way  into  notice.  You  have 
been  a  good  sailor,  and  1  have  let  you  have 
pretty  much  your  own  way  so  far;  but  you 
have  got  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  now.  I 
want  no  more  of  your  morality,  nor  will  I 
hear  any  more  of  your  whims  about  sin.  It 
is  all  stuff  I  We  are  now  under  a  free  flag, 
and  you  have  got  to  be  one  of  us.  We've 
got  some  new  men,  too,  who  are  used  to  the 
business,  and  who  mustn't  see  the  white 
feather  in  you.  Xow,  Master  Alfred,  the 
whole  business  can  be  summed  up  in  a  few 
words.  You've  got  to  be  one  of  us — fare  as 
the  rest  do— bear  your  part  of  the  duty  that 
may  turn  up,  and  never  drop  a  word  in  the 
hearing  of  the  men  that  you  do  not  like  our 
doings." 

"Have  you  finished?  "  calmly  asked  the 
young  man. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  may  speak  ?  " 

*'  Certainly;  but  you  had  better  exercise 
care." 

"  I  shall  speak  as  freely  as  you  have 
done,"  said  Alfred,  not  at  all  daunted  by 
the  threatening  look  of  the  captain. 

"  Very  well.     Go  on." 

"  Then,  sir,  so  long  as  I  am  forced  to  re- 
main on  board  this  brig,  I  shall  do  my  duty 


as  a  seaman ,  but  I  will  never  raise  my  hand 
as  a  pirate." 

"Better  be  careful  I  "  growled  Bronkon. 

"  I  shall  be  very  careful  that  the  sin  of 
piracy  rests  not  on  my  soul." 

For  a  few  moments  Pettrell  and  Bronkon 
regarded  each  other  in  silence. 

"Look  ye,"  said  the  captain,  while  his 
frame  trembled  with  passion;  "we  have 
laws  on  board  this  vessel,  and  for  him  that 
breaks  them  the  yard-arm  shall  find  a  hang- 
ing place  1  " 

"  Very  well,"  calmly  replied  Alfred. 

"Better  be  careful!"  again  growled 
Bronkon, 

"I  doi^'t  believe  you'll  run  the  risk  of 
getting  your  neck  stretched,", added  Pettrell, 
"  But  let  me  assure  you  that  it  wouldn't  go 
against  my  grain  at  all  to  do  the  job  for 
you,  if  you  attempt  to  breed  mutiny." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt  your  word," 
said  Alfred. 

"  Of  course  you  haven't." 

"Nor  do  I." 

"  Then  you  will  be  wise  if  you  govern 
yourself  accordingly." 

"  It  is  not  always  wise  to  be  governed  by 
every  wind  that  blows.  You  wouldn't  think 
of  keeping  square  yards  and  running  off 
before  the  ever-changing  gale." 

"  None  of  your  morality." 

"  I  do  not  give  it  for  your  benefit,  but 
only  to  show  you  my  rule  of  conduct.  Now 
you  can  do  with  your  brig  as  you  choose, 
and  I  shall  do  as  I  choose.  I  am  not  here 
of  my  own  free  will,  but  am  forced  to  my 
present  position.  There  is  a  bound,  how- 
ever, beyond  which  I  cannot  be  forced.  I 
trust  you  understand  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  understand  you;  but  I  don't  believe 
you  understand  me  I  " 

As  Pettrell  thus  spoke,  he  arose  from  his 
seat  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  young  man's 
head.  His  features  were  tortured  into  a 
fearful  expression,  and  his  words  "vere 
hissed  out  like  the  voice  of  a  serpent. 

"Mark  me,"  he  said;  "  if  you  dare  to 
show  a  look  of  insubordination  before  the 
men,  you'll  hang  for  it!  " 

Marrok  Pettrell  turned  and  went  on  deck. 


THE   STOKM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


sa 


"Youngster,  you'd  better  be  careful!" 
uttered  Bronkon. 

"  Stop,  Mark  Bronkon,"  exclaimed  the 
youth,  as  the  dark-looking  mate  started  to 
leave  the  cabin.  "  I  once  saved  your  life, 
and  to  do  it,  I  took  the  lives  of  two  men 
who  were  doing  but  their  duty.  At  that 
moment,  when  you  were  bent  helpless  over 
the  trunk,  and  the  sword  was  at  your  breast, 
I  pitied  you  in  your  utter  helplessness,  and 
saved  you.  Now  will  you  lend  your  hand 
to  crush  me?  I  seek  the  harm  of  no  man. 
AVere  I  at  this  moment  clear  of  the  brig,  no 
word  of  mine  should  betray  her  character; 
but  I  cannot  become  a  pirate.  Why  should 
I  be  forced  to  this  thing  ?  Can  you  tell  me 
why  I  am  thus  trampled  upon  ?  why  thus 
abused  ?  What  harm  have  I  done  ?  what 
evil  thought  or  deed  have  I  given  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  gruffly  returned  Bronkon. 

"  Have  I  given  any  ?  " 

"I  couldn't  tell  you." 

"  Ah,  Bronkon,  you  may  sneer  at  my 
young  hopes — at  my  soul's  expression  of  its 
desired  rectitude— but  if  you  ever  enter- 
tained a  single  youthful  aspiration  that  has 
been  crushed,  you  should  know  how  to  pity 
me.  Perhaps  you  never  did — perhaps  your 
life  was  always  cast  in  the  rough  paths  you 
now  tread." 

"Stuff!  Gammon!"  growled  Bronkon; 
and  yet  Alfred  thought  he  saw  a  tear  rolling 
down  the  dark  man's  cheek.  lUit  he  turned 
away  to  hide  it. 

"  Can  you  not  tell  me" 

Bronkon  stopped  not  to  hear  the  youth 
speak  further,  but  with  an  uncai^y  move- 
ment he  turned  away  and  went  on  deck. 

"Can  it  be  possible,"  uttered  Alfred  to 
himself,  "  that  Bronkon  has  one  tender  feel- 
ing in  his  bosom  ?  That  was  certainly  a 
tear  I  saw  upon  his  cheek— and  he  surely 
trembled  while  I  spoke." 

The  young  man  arose  from  his  seat  and 
began  to  pace  the  cabin.  The  full  realiza- 
tion of  his  situation  had  come  upon  him, 
and  he  trembled  as  he  thought  of  the  terri- 
ble ordeal  through  which  he  had  got  to  pass. 
But  he  swerved  not  from  his  resolution  to 
keej)  his  hands  clear  of  the  fatal  work  that 


had  been  planned.  He  had  not  long  for  his 
reflections,  however,  for  as  soon  as  the  brig's 
course  had  been  laid  out,  and  the  watch  set, 
the  captain  and  one  of  the  strangers  came 
down. 

"  You'd  better  turn  in,"  said  Pettrell,  as 
he  cast  a  wicked  glance  upon  Alfred;  "for 
you'll  have  to  go  on  deck  at  midnight.  You 
are  still  in  my  watch." 

Alfred  got  into  his  berth,  but  it  was  a  long 
time  before  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  the 
drowsy  fit  did  come  upon  him,  he  left  Pet- 
trell and  the  new  man  engaged  in  consulting 
the  chart  of  the  Indian  Ocean.  This  new- 
comer was  a  villanous  fellow,  and  his  name 
was  Dunham — at  least,  so  Pettrell  called 
him,  and  he  had  been  an  officer  of  a  pirate 
vessel  that  had  been  cast  away  on  the  island 
where  the  "  Adder"  had  taken  him  in. 

At  midnight,  Alfred  went  on  deck,  and  he 
found  that  the  brig  was  heading  for  the 
Straits  of  Sunda,  and  that  she  was  to  make 
the  best  of  her  way  into  the  Indian  Ocean. 
Half-a-dozen  of  the  men  were  at  work  in 
the  forward  bunk-room  making  cartridges, 
and  some  of  the  hands  on  deck  were  set  to 
work  lashing  up  stands  of  grape-shot. 

At  two  o'clock,  Alfred  took  the  helm,  and 
shortly  afterwards  Pettrell  came  on  deck  to 
look  at  the  compass. 

"  Got  over  your  spleen  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain. 

"Don't  try  to  worry  me,  sir,  when  there 
is  no  occasion  for  it,"  retorted  Alfred. 

"  Then  don't  give  me  occasion." 

Just  then  Dunham  came  aft,  and  Pettrell 
turned  away  from  the  binnacle.  The  youth 
overboard  most  of  their  conversation,  and 
from  it  he  learned  that  no  operations  of  a 
decided  character  were  to  be  commenced  till 
the  brig  had  cleared  the  China  Sea;  but  that 
after  the  Straits  of  Sunda  were  passed,  it 
was  their  intention  to  throw  themselves 
upon  the  first  merchantman  they  might  fall 
in  with.  But  that  would  be  two  weeks,  at 
least,  in  the  future,  and  our  hero  was  in- 
formed by  Pettrell,  as  the  latter  turned 
again  towards  him,  that  he  "  would  have 
plenty  of  time  for  reflection." 
3 


34         THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  SHIP. — THE  TKUE  HERO. 

In  three  weeks  from  the  time  of  the  tak- 
ing in  of  the  brig's  piratical  armament,  she 
had  entered  the  Indian  Ocean,  and  was 
standing  down  towards  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope.  The  duty  had  thus  far  been  of  a 
quiet  and  steady  character,  and  though  the 
reckless  crew  saw  nothing  out  of  the  way  in 
the  demeanor  of  Alfred  Harrold,  yet  he  had 
become  firmly  fixed  in  his  determination  to 
die  ere  he  would  lay  his  hand  to  the  consum- 
mation of  any  robbery  upon  the  high  seas. 

One  thing  seemed  to  give  Marrok  Pettrell 
more  occasion  for  troublous  feelings  than  all 
else,  and  that  was,  the  general  disposition  of 
the  crew  towards  loving  his  unwilling  pro- 
tege. The  rough  seamen  could  not  but  love 
the  young  man,  for  he  was  always  mild  and 
kind,  and  he  never  failed  to  offer  his  assist- 
ance where  it  could  benefit  a  shipmate. 
Some  of  them  he  had  taught  to  read,  and 
to  some  he  had  imparted  instruction  in  nav- 
igation. Those  uneducated  children  of  sin 
and  shame  had  learned  to  look  upon  the 
youth  with  respect  and  esteem,  for  he  never 
lost  sight  of  his  true  dignity,  and  yet  he 
always  associated  with  his  shipmates  upon 
terms  of  social  equality.  The  coarse  and 
profane  jest  he  passed  unheeded  by,  while 
he  smiled  at  the  wit  of  his  companions. 

Few  men  are  so  sunken  that  they  will  not 
love  that  which  is  to  them  kind  and  gener- 
ous, and  which  at  the  same  time  meets  them 
upon  a  social  equality.  There  are  some,  to 
be  sure,  in  whose  bosoms  the  spark  of  grati- 
tude cannot  exist;  but  generally  it  is  because 
the  cold  hand  of  some  bitter  disappointment 
or  dire  revenge  lies  heavily  there.  At  any 
rate,  there  were  few  on  board  the  brig  who 
did  not  love  the  pale  youth  who  read  to 
them,  and  who  taught  them.  They  had  no 
appreciation  of  his  peculiar  moral  qualities, 
but  his  social  nature  was  congenial.  Pet- 
trell saw  it  all,  and  often  did  his  teeth  grate 
like  files  as  he  found  that  Alfred  was  mak- 
ing so  many  friends  among  the  crew. 

Early  one  morning,  after  the  brig  had 
passed  the  southern   tropic,  the  crew  were 


aroused  by  the  reporting  of  a  sail.  Pettrell 
sprang  up  from  the  cabin  with  his  glass,  and 
he  quickly  had  the  sail  in  view.  It  proved 
to  be  a  ship  standing  to  the  southward  and 
westward. 

"  A  homeward-bound  Indiaman,"  said 
Dunham. 

"  She  will  be  a  rich  prize,"  said  Bronkon. 

"  And  perhaps  a  hard  one  to  take,"  sug- 
gested the  captain. 

"  Never  fear  for  that,"  resumed  Dunham. 
"  AVe  are  forty — yes,  forty-one,  all  told — and 
I  doubt  if  the  ship  has  much  over  half  that 
number.  She  may  have  passengers,  but 
they  won't  be  likely  to  do  much. 

Pettrell  was  all  excitement.  He  hurried 
about  the  deck  to  see  that  all  was  in  order 
for  the  chase,  and  then  he  came  aft  and 
used  his  glass  again. 

The  ship  had  been  seen  when  daylight 
first  fairly  broke,  and  she  was  not  now  more 
than  four  miles  distant.  The  wind  was 
nearly  east.  The  ship  was  dead  to  leeward 
of  the  brig,  and  standing  across  the  line  of 
the  latter's  course. 

"  Let's  have  the  stun'-sails  on,  Bronkon," 
said  the  captain.  "  By  heavens,  that  fellow 
sails  low!  " 

The  studding-sails  were  set  both  sides,  and 
the  starboard  clue  of  the  mainsail  set.  The 
brig  was  now  dead  before  the  wind,  but  ere 
long  she  was  put  three  points  to  the  south- 
ward, and  her  starboard  studding-sails  taken 
in.  It  was  soon  evident  that  she  was  gain- 
ing on  the  ship. 

"There  goes  her  stun'-sails,"  uttered 
Bronkon.     "  She  smells  danger." 

"  I  don't  wonder,"  said  Dunham.  "  I 
rather  guess  they  know  what  we  mean." 

*'  Waffon,"  said  Pettrell,  "  get  up  grog 
enough  for  all  hands.  Let  'em  have  a 
strong  pull." 

"  That's  the  talk,"  added  Dunham,  with  a 
satisfied  chuckle.  "  Noth'n  like  rum  to 
make  men  fight.  It  makes  'em  savage 
like." 

After  the  expression  of  this  weighty  opin- 
ion, Dunham  took  the  glass  and  examined 
the  ship,  and  ere  long  the  grog-tub  was 
brought  upon  deck. 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL.        35 


"  Help  yourselves,  luy  men,"  said  Pettrell, 
"  only  be  careful  and  don't  get  enough  to 
lay  you  by  the  scuppers." 

Alfred  now  felt  that  his  hour  of  trial  had 
come,  but  he  nerved  himself  for  the  contest, 
and  he  felt  strong  in  his  resolution. 

"  Won't  you  have  a  dip  at  the  tub  ?  " 
asked  Pettrell. 

"  No,"  returned  our  hero. 

"  You  had  belter,"  urged  the  pirate  cap- 
tain, while  a  demon  sparkled  in  his  eye. 

"  I  don't  wish  for  it,  sir." 

"It  will  do  you  good." 

*'  I  do  not  wish  for  it." 

"  It  will  make  you  fight  better." 

*'  All  my  fighting  can  be  done  without  it." 

*'  Then  you  won't  fight,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  yet." 

"  But  if  there  is  need  of  it  ?  " 

"  Let  the  need  come,  and  I  shall  not  be 
behind." 

"  But  look  ye,  Master  Alfred,  beware  that 
you  don't  set  yourself  up  as  judge  of  that 
need.     I'll  tell  you  when  the  need  comes." 

"  Better  fight,"  said  Bronkon. 

*'  Of  course  he  will,"  added  Pettrell,  "  I 
don't  believe  he  wants  to  swing  quite  yet." 

"  Alfred,  you  can  fight  and  you  must," 
said  Bronkon,  in  a  low  tone,  after  the  cap- 
tain had  turned  away. 

"  You  know  my  resolutions,"  calmly  re- 
turned our  hero. 

"Oh,  bahl  Stuff!  Gammon!  It's  all 
nonsense  to  throw  your  life  away.  Do  not, 
for  God's  sake,  be  a  fool!  " 

Alfred  was  startled  by  the  strange  man- 
ner of  Bronkon.  He  gazed  into  the  mate's 
dark  features,  but  he  could  only  see  the 
same  hard,  cold  expression  that  generally 
rested  there. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool!  "  repeated  Bronkon,  as 
he  turned  away. 

Two  hours  had  passed  since  the  chase  be- 
gan, and  the  brig  was  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  of  the  ship.  Upon  the  quarter-deck 
of  the  latter  quite  a  body  of  people  were  col- 
lected, and  many  of  them  were  passengers — 
some  females. 

"  I  don't  think  there'll  be  much  resist- 
aace,"  said  Dunham,  as    he   stopped   and 


watched  the  movements  of  Bronkon,  who 
was  looking  through  the  glass. 

"  I  don't  know,"  returned  the  latter,  still 
gazing  through  the  instrument.  "  I  can  see 
the  glitter  of  arms,  and  th<^.  captain  is  cer- 
tainly mustering  his  passengers.  Yes,  there 
are  cutlasses  and  pistols.  By  the  jumping 
cokey,  we  shall  have  work  yet!  " 

"Never  mind,  if  we  get  enough  to  pay 
us,"  said  Dunham.  "  Can't  expect  always 
to  win  without  losing  a  cast.  Them  passen- 
gers won't  be  much." 

"  Fire  a  gun,  Waflfon,"  ordered  Pettrell. 
"  We'll  see  if  she  will  lay  to." 

The  gun  was  fired,  but  the  ship  still  stood 
on. 

"  Give  'em  a  shot,  Waffon,  and  see  if  that 
will  fetch  'em,"  cried  the  captain,  who  was 
growing  more  excited,  as  he  saw  the  rich 
prize  so  near  to  his  grasp.  "  In  with  a 
double-header,  AVaffon,  and  give  it  to  her 
among  her  rigging." 

The  shot  was  fired,  but  without  effect. 

"  You  want  practice,"  said  Dunham;"  let 
me  try  a  hand." 

A  bow  gun  was  levelled,  Dunham  took 
sight  and  fired,  and  on  the  next  instant  a 
cloud  of  splinters  was  seen  flying  about  the 
ship's  quarter-deck. 

"  If  that  doesn't  stop  'em,"  uttered  Pet- 
trell, "  I  will  luff  and  give  them  a  broad- 
side." 

There  was  no  need  of  the  pirate's  threat 
being  carried  into  execution,  however,  for 
the  ship  braced  her  fore  and  mizzen  yards 
up,  and  came  into  the  wind  with  her  main- 
topsail  aback. 

"  They're  ready  to  show  fight,"  exclaimed 
Bronkon.  "  Her  crew  are  armed  with  pikes, 
and  the  passengers  have  cutlasses.  The 
women  have  gone  below." 

"  We're  a  match  for  them,"  returned  Pet- 
trell. "  Stand  by,  my  men.  We'll  luff  and 
run  afoul  of  her  weather  quarter.  Let 
every  man  have  his  cutlass  in  his  right  hand 
and  a  pistol  in  his  left,  and  spring  for  her 
bulwarks  the  moment  we  touch.  Catch  your 
cutlasses  in  your  teeth  if  you  want  a  hand  to 
help  you  over  her  side.  Here,  Alfred,  if 
you  are  afraid  of  powder,  take  the  wheel  *, 


56         THE  STORM   CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


you  can  do  well  there."  The  youth  did  not 
move. 

"Take  the  wheel,  I  say!"  cried  Pettrell. 

"  Not  to  help  you  in  reaching  that  ship," 
firmly  returned  Alfred. 

"  What!  Do  you  refuse?  Take  the  wheel, 
I  say!" 

"Never!  " 

"  By  your  life,  youngster,  if  you  don't 
take  that  wheel,  you'll  rue  it." 

"  I  shall  not  take  it,  sir,  nor  shall  I  move 
a  finger  towards  furthering  your  designs 
upon  that  ship." 

"Alfred,"  hissed  the  pirate  captain,  with 
fearful  emphasis,  "  if — ^j'ou — don't — take — 
that — wheel — you— shall — swing!  " 

Alfred  trembled,  and  a  pallor  stole  over 
his  countenance,  but  he  moved  not. 

"  Take  it! "  said  Bronkon. 

"No,"  resolutely  returned  the  youth; 
and  as  he  spoke  he  folded  his  arms  across 
his  breast. 

Pettrell  foamed  with  rage,  and  with  a  de- 
moniac growl  he  sprang  upon  the  young 
man  and  bore  him  to  the  deck. 

"  Come,  come,  Marrok,"  cried  Bronkon, 
"  we've  got  other  fish  to  fry  now.  Let  the 
man  keep  the  wheel  that's  got  it.  Here  we 
are.  Death  and  destruction !  Spring  to  the 
braces!  in  the  lee  braces,  quick!  Down 
•with  it!  Come,  come,  Marrok,  be  captain  if 
you  are  going  to!  " 

Marrok  Pettrell  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  he 
saw  how  much  need  there  was  of  his  atten- 
tion to  the  affairs  of  his  vessel,  for  she  was 
already  within  half  a  dozen  fathoms  of  the 
ship.  He  was  still  mad  with  rage,  and  it 
was  some  time  before  he  could  command 
himself;  but  the  necessity  for  action  soon 
called  him  to  his  senses. 

The  brig  had  luffed  so  as  to  fall  afoul  of 
the  ship,  and  when  she  touched,  the  men 
poured  up  the  Indiaman's  side,  with  Bron- 
kon and  Pettrell  at  their  head.  They  re- 
ceived the  fire  of  the  merchantman's  crew 
with  but  little  damage,  and  having  knocked 
the  pikes  aside,  they  leaped  upon  the  deck. 

The  struggle  was  of  short  duration,  and 
in  less  than  ten  minutes  from  the  time  of  the 
pirates'  boarding,  they  were  masters  of  the 


ship.  No  violence  was  offered  after  the 
crew  had  surrendered,  save  a  few  revenge- 
ful passes  among  the  heated  seamen.  Four 
of  the  ship's  men  were  killed,  and  quite  a 
number  wounded.  The  pirate  lost  five  men, 
three  having  been  shot  in  boarding. 

Alfred  Harrold  remained  the  sole  occu- 
pant of  the  brig,  and  more  than  once  the 
thought  occurred  to  him  of  cutting  the 
grapplings  and  letting  the  ship  drop  off,  and 
of  then  letting  the  brig  run  with  himself 
alone  on  board ;  but  the  plan  was  impracti- 
cable, and  he  dropped  it.  He  saw  the  con- 
flict, and  he  saw  a  tiny  stream  of  blood 
starting  from  one  of  the  Indiaman's  scup- 
pers; and  he  thanked  God  that  he  was  not 
there.  But  then  came  the  thought  of  the 
pirate  chieftain's  threat,  and  with  a  shudder 
his  eye  rested  upon  the  fore-yard  arm. 

"  Let  it  come,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"  God  will  not  forsake  me,  even  though  they 
kill  this  poor  body.  They  cannot  harm  the 
soul." 

Alfred  heard  the  ship's  crew  cry  for  quar- 
ter, and  in  a  few  moments  more  Bronkon 
and  half  a  dozen  men  returned  to  the  brig's 
deck  and  removed  the  hatches.  Shortly 
afterwards  a  whip  was  rove  upon  the  mer- 
chantman's main-yard-arm,  and  another 
upon  the  mainstay,  and  then  the  pirates 
began  to  hoist  out  such  articles  of  value  as 
they  took  a  fancy  for.  Three  boxes  of 
money  were  found  beneath  the  floor  of  the 
ship's  cabin,  and  much  jewelry  w^as  taken 
from  the  passengers. 

In  two  hours  after  the  ship  had  surren- 
dered, the  pirates  returned  to  their  own  ves- 
sel, and  she  was  allowed  to  proceed  on  her 
way. 

"  That's  better  than  buying  a  cargo,"  said 
Pettrell,  {is  the  hatches  were  closed  over 
the  valuables. 

"  Fact,"  said  Bronkon. 

"  You  have  bought  these  things  of  one 
who  will  take  a  terrible  pay! "  uttered 
Alfred  Harrold. 

None  heard  him  save  Bronkon.  The  dark 
man  gazed  into  the  youth's  face,  and  a 
change  came  over  his  features. 

"That's  all  stuff!  "  he  said,  with  an  effort 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


37 


to  look  the  contempt  he  spoke,  but  whicli 
was  unsuccessful. 

••  'Tis  fearfully  bought!  "  said  Alfred. 
The  mate  heard  him,  and  then  turned  away. 

Ere  long  the  brig  was  clear,  and  with 
tiowing  sheets  she  went  dashing  off  towards 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  YARD-ARM. 

The  afternoon  had  passed  half  away  when 
everything  was  arranged  for  the  examina- 
tion and  stowing  away  of  the  plunder. 
Petirell  was  walking  the  quarter-deck  with 
quick,  nervous  strides,  and  his  fists  were 
clutched  together  till  the  finger  nails  almost 
penetrated  the  flesh.  The  men  regarded 
him  in  silence,  and  an  ominous  stillness 
reigned  throughout  the  brig. 

Bronkon  was  standing  by  the  binnacle, 
and  upon  his  face  the  darkness  had  grown 
more  deep  than  ever.  lie  raised  his  eyes 
ever  and  anon  from  the  compass,  and  cast  a 
glance  upon  the  captain;  and  once  he  looked 
upon  Alfred.  His  features  looked  more  ter- 
rible than  did  those  of  Pettrell. 

Alfred  Harrold  stood  by  the  starboard 
quarter  rail,  and  though  he  felt  assured  that 
he  was  soon  to  be  brought  to  an  account  with 
Pettrell,  yet  he  was  calm  and  collected,  and 
no  one  could  know  from  his  outward  appear- 
ance, that  he  had  anything  to  fear. 

"Waffon,"  said  the  captain,  stopping  in 
his  walk,  and  speaking  through  his  clenched 
teeth,  "  see  that  the  starboard  fore-clew- 
garnet  and  buntlines  are  manned.  I  want 
the  lee  clew  of  the  sail  hauled  up,  sir." 

Again  Pettrell  paced  the  deck,  and  with- 
out a  word  of  answer  or  comment  his  order 
was  obeyed. 

"■  Dunham,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  the  lee 
clew  of  the  foresail  was  up,"  send  some  of 
the  foretopmen  aloft,  and  have  a  tail-block 
made  fast  to  the  lee  fore-yard-arm.  Then 
have  a  whip  rove,  sir,  with  both  ends  in- 
board." 

This  order  was  obeved  in  silence,  and  the 


men  anxiously  awaited  the  further  move- 
ments of  their  chieftain. 

"Make  a  slip-noose  in  the  outer  end  of 
that  whip,  sir,  and  rig  a  snatch-block  for  the 
running  end,  and  reeve  it." 

All  hands  knew  well  enough  the  nature  of 
the  captain's  intentions,  and  various  were 
the  expressions  upon  the  faces  of  the  crew. 

"  Now,  sir,"  uttered  Pettrell,  as  he  turned 
towards  Alfred,  "your  hour  has  come.  I 
told  you  you  should  swing  if  you  refused  to 
do  your  duty.  You  had  fair  warning — 
you've  had  warnings  enough — and  yet  you 
choose  to  disobey.  Now,  sir,  I  will  keep  my 
word.  If  you  have  prayers  to  say,  say 
them!" 

The  young  man's  features  grew  paler  as 
the  pirate  captain  thus  addressed  him,  and 
there  was  a  tremor  upon  his  lips.  The  pres- 
ence of  the  death  sentence,  and  the  sight  of 
the  apparatus  for  carrying  it  into  execution, 
had  more  effect  than  our  hero  had  thought. 
There  was  something  terrible  in  such  a 
death;  and  then,  too,  to  die  among  such 
people,  with  no  sympathy,  no  love,  no  re- 
gret; to  fall  where  a  mourner's  tear  could 
never  drop  to  his  memory,  and  where  no  re- 
quiem could  sound  over  his  grave  save  the 
howl  of  the  storm-wind  and  the  tempest. 
The  poor  youth  had  not  the  fortitude  he  had 
counted  upon.  He  could  have  laid  down 
calmly  upon  the  bed  of  death  had  God 
called  him  home,  but  all  about  him  now 
was  so  horrible  he  shrank  away  in  fear. 

"  Come,"  said  Pettrell,  "  I  am  waiting  for 
you.  This  is  a  death  of  your  own  choosing. 
You  have  been  warned  of  it  times  enough." 

<'  Warned  of  it' "  exclaimed  Alfred,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  in  agony.  "  How  have  I  been 
warned  of  it  ?  " 

"  How  ?  In  every  way.  But  a  few  hours 
ago  I  told  you  you  should  swing  if  you  did 
not  take  that  wheel. .  In  the  presence  of  my 
whole  crew  you  boldly  trampled  upon  my 
authority.  How  have  I  warned  you  ?  You 
know  very  well  how  I  have  warned  you. 
Come,  say  your  prayers,  for  I  suppose  one 
so  religious  as  you  must  have  prayers  to 
say!  " 

"  Marrok   Pettrell,   I   do   not  believe  vou 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


iDean  to  hang  me.  I  cannot  believe  you 
«^ill  be  so  heartlessly  cruel." 

A  bittersneer  broke  over  the  pirate's  face, 
ftnd  he  pointed  to  where  the  whip  was  rove 
kt  the  yard-arm. 

"Thai — rope — is— for — you!  "  he  uttered, 
m  distinctly  separate  and  emphasized  parts. 
^  All  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth  should 
not  make  it  otherwise.  Now  rig  yourself 
for  it.    All  here  know  it's  your  own  choice." 

"  O  Pettrell,  do  not  add  base  falsehood  to 
four  brutal  crueltyl "  exclaimed  Alfred. 
"  Do  not  tell  these  men  a  lie.  You  dragged 
me  on  board  this  brig — you  robbed  me  of 
home,  of  friends,  of  happiness,  and  of 
peace;  and  you  have  tried  to  rob  me  of 
honor.  You  have  trampled  upon  me  in 
your  strength,  because  I  was  weak.  I  would 
not  give  you  my  soul's  purest  jewel— its 
sacred  virtue — and  hence  you  would  murder 
me.  I  call  on  all  here  to  witness  that  I 
have  ever  done  my  duty,  as  an  honest  sea- 
man, well  and  faithfully.  These  men  know 
that  I  have  ever  been" 

"Silence!"  thundered  Pettrell,  for  he 
saw  that  the  youth's  words  were  making  an 
impression  upon  the  crew. 

"No,  no,  Marrok  Pettrell.  If  I  am  to 
die  you  shall  not  manacle  my  tongue.  What 
I  have  said  is  true.  You  have  stripped  my 
life  of  all  that  made  it  valuable  on  earth, 
and  because  you  could  not  tear  from  it  all 
that  would  be  valuable  in  heaven,  you  would 
kill  me.  I  speak  the  truth  in  this,  and  I  call 
on  God  to  bear  me  witness  that  you  have 
longed,  ay,  prayed  for  a  pretext  for  my  mur- 
der!    Now  you  have  it." 

"  Now  you've  said  enough." 

"  Perhaps  I  have." 

"  And  according  to  your  belief,"  ironically 
added  Pettrell,  "  you  are  much  fitter  for 
heaven   than  for  earth." 

In  an  instant  the  expression  upon  Alfred 
Harrold's  face  was  changed.  The  fear- 
marks  passed  away,  and  all  was  calm  again. 

"I  can  commend  myself  to  the  care  of 
God  without  fear,"  he  uttered. 

"  Then  come!  " 

Pettrell  moved  forward  as  he  spoke,  and 
Alfi'Cd  followed  him. 


"  Now,  sir,  your  time  is  up,"  the  pirate 
captain  said. 

"Very  well.  But  before  I  die  let 
me" 

"Silence!  Not  another  word.  Your 
tongue  has  wagged  enough.     Here!" 

As  Pettrell  spoke,  he  took  the  noose  from 
the  breech  of  one  of  the  guns,  and  threw  it 
over  Alfred's  head. 

At  that  moment  Mark  Bronkon  started  up 
from  the  spot  where  he  had  been  leaning  by 
the  binnacle,  and  came  forward.  He  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot,  and  a  strange  ex- 
pression was  upon  his  countenance. 

"Marrok,"  he  said,  "let  this  thing  be 
stopped!     Take  that  rope  from  his  neck!  " 

"  S'death!  What  do  you  mean,  Mark  ?  " 
uttered  Pettrell,  in  astonishment. 

"  I  mean  that  the  young  man  shall  not 
die!" 

"  Are  you  crazy  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  in  sober  earnest." 

"Then  stand  back;  for,  by  my  salvation, 
the  fellow  shall  die!  Man  the  whip!  Man 
the  whip,  I  say!  " 

Not  a  soul  moved  to  obey  the  order, 

"  Man  the  whip,  and  run  the  mutineer 
up!"  shouted  the  pirate  captain,  foaming 
with  rage, 

"  No,  no,  Marrok  Pettrell,"  said  Bronkon, 
in  a  deep  calm  tone.  "Not  a  man  shall 
touch  that  rope.  The  youngster  saved  my 
life  once,  and  now  I'll  save  his.  What  he 
has  said  is  true." 

"  By  heavens,  Mark,  you  had  better  be- 
ware! "  uttered  Pettrell,  turning  towards  his 
mate. 

"  Don't  speak  too  much,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper.  "  You  know  me,  Marrok,  too 
well  for  that." 

"  Man  the  whip." 

Not  a  man  moved,  and  on  the  next  instant 
Pettrell  drew  a  pistol,  but  Bronkon  knocked 
it  from  his  hand. 

The  attention  of  the  crew  was  now  turned 
from  the  doomed  youth  to  the  dark-faced 
mate.  The  men  trembled  as  they  saw  the 
rage  of  their  chieftain,  but  a  sort  of  awe 
stole  over  them  when  they  saw  the  stout 
form   of  Bronkon   towering  in  its  strength. 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEE1>EU  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


One  of  them  slipped  the  rope  from  Alfred's 
neck,  but  Pettrell  saw  it  not. 

"  Marrok,"  said  the  mate,  as  he  knocked 
the  pistol  down,  "  let  this  thing  stop  where 
it  is.  I  have  said  that  Alfred  shall  not  die. 
You  know  me  well  enough  to  think  no  more 
of  the  deed." 

"  Mark,  that  boy  is  minel  " 

•' sh!    Say  no  more.  " 

"  But  he  is  mine." 

«'  Not  to  kill." 

"  Blood  and  destruction  1  Mark,  what  do 
you  mean  ?  Stand  back  and  let  this  thing 
go  on.  Ha!  who  took  off  the  rope  ?  Put  it 
on  again.  Put  it  on,  I  say.  The  first  man 
that  disobeys  me  shall  die!  " 

"  O  fool!  "  muttered  Bronkon,  as  he  laid 
his  hand  on  Pettrell's  shoulder.  "  Come  aft 
a  moment  for  I  would  speak  a  word  in  your 
ear." 

The  mate  half  dragged  the  captain  to  the 
quarter-deck,  and  there  they  remained  in 
earnest  conversation  several  minutes.  At 
length  Bronkon  came  forward. 

"Hark  ye,  ray  men,"'  he  said.  "The 
captain  will  abide  by  your  decision.  Shall 
the  young  man  die  ?  " 

Nearly  all  the  crew  spoke  as  one  man,  and 
a  thundering  "  No!  "  broke  upon  the  air. 

Mark  Bronkon  laid  his  hand  upon  Alfred's 
shoulder,  and  led  him  towards  the  quarter- 
deck. 

"  Alfred,"  said  he,  "  you  have  been  a  fool; 
but  I  owed  you  one,  and  I  have  paid  it.  We 
arc  square  now.  For  the  future  you  must 
look  out  for  yourself." 

"  Oh,  God  will  bless  you  for  this!  "  ejac- 
ulated the  youth. 

"Will  he?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  And  I  will  bless  you  as  long 
as  I  live." 

Bronkon  turned  away  without  further  re- 
mark, and  shortly  afterwards  Alfred  sought 
the  cabin.  He  sank  upon  his  knees  as  soon 
as  he  found  himself  alone,  and  offered  up  to 
God  his  soul's  prayer.  A  foot-step  on  the 
ladder  aroused  him.    It  was  Marrok  Pettrell. 

"  Alfred,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  sank  in- 
to a  seat  almost  exhaustsd  by  the  effects  of 
the  rage  he  had  held  in  his  bosom,  "this  has 


been  done  to  please  Mark  Bronkon.  Yon 
saved  him  once,  and  he  has  now  saved  you; 
but,  as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven, 
there  shall  be  no  second  respite.  Cross  me 
but  once  again,  and  j-our  death  is  as  sure  as 
though  you  hung  by  the  neck  from  the  yard- 
arm!  " 

Alfred  made  no  reply.  He  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  for  a  long  time  he  was  lost 
to  everything  save  the  scene  just  passed. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    FATAL  SHOT. 

The  brig  fell  in  with  no  more  merchant- 
men until  after  she  had  doubled  the  cape, 
and  it  was  the  intention  of  Pettrell  to  pro- 
ceed directly  to  England.  Alfred's  heail 
leaped  with  new  hope  as  he  heard  this,  and 
he  resolved  that  if  he  could  once  more  get 
clear  of  the  vessel,  he  would  not  be  brought 
back  alive.  He  prayed  that  the  pirates 
might  not  attempt  to  take  another  prize,  but 
he  knew  they  would  if  the  opportunity  were 
to  be  afforded.  His  treatment  by  the  cap- 
tain had  been  cold  and  formal,  and  as  harsh 
as  circumstances  would  allow.  Bronkon 
scarcely  seemed  to  notice  him,  and  when 
duty  required  that  the  mate  should  address 
him,  it  was  always  done  in  a  low,  growling 
tone.  To  our  hero  the  character  of  Mark 
Bronkon  presented  a  problem  which  he 
could  not  solve. 

Time  passed  on.  Summer  had  gone,  and 
autumn  had  commenced.  The  pirate  brig 
had  passed  the  Cape  de  Verds  without  any 
event  to  stir  the  men  from  the  dull  monot- 
ony of  sea-life,  and  they  began  to  speak  of 
hunting  up  a  prize.  Some  proposed  steering 
to  the  westward  and  lying  in  wait  for  some 
American  Indiaman;  but  Pettrell  decided  tc 
stand  on  for  old  England. 

One  bright  day,  while  the  Peak  of  Tene- 
riffe  was  in  sight  on  the  starboard  bow,  a 
sail  was  reported  on  the  opposite  bow.  In  a 
moment  all  was  excitement  upon  the  pirate's 
deck,  and  Pettrell  seized  his  glass.  It  want- 
ed an  hour  of  noon,  and  the  wind  was  fresh 
from  the  westward. 


40 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


In  half  an  hour  the  strange  sail  was  made 
.out  to  be  a  ship,  and  in  another  half-hour 
she  was  "  hull  up,"  going  before  the  wind, 
and  evidently  bound  into  some  of  the  Cana- 
ry ports.  It  was  evident  that  she  could  be 
cut  off  before  she  could  cross  the  brig's  fore- 
foot, and  to  this  end  the  helm  of  the  latter 
was  put  up  a  spoke. 

The  pirate's  guns  were  shotted,  her  arm- 
chests  opened,  and  as  soon  as  the  small  arms 
were  all  distributed,  a  gun  was  fired  for  the 
ship  to  heave  to.  The  ship  kept  on,  and  ran 
up  an  American  flag  at  her  peak. 

"  We'll  give  'em  our  flag,"  said  Pettrell; 
and  in  a  few  moments  more  a  sable  flag  flut- 
tered out  from  the  brig's  peak.  The  flag 
Was  as  black  as  night,  with  no  relief  or  de- 
vice of  any  kind. 

As  soon  as  the  flag  was  shown,  another 
gun  was  fired,  and  ere  long  the  ship  came 
into  the  wind  on  the  starboard  tack,  and 
hove  to.  The  pirate  was  now  within  a 
cable's  length  of  the  American,  and  she  had 
made  her  arrangements  to  round  to  under  the 
ship's  lee  quarter.  The  men  were  stationed 
by  the  rigging  ready  for  a  leap,  save  such 
as  were  needed  at  the  braces,  and  at  length 
the  pirate's  yards  were  braced  up,  her  helm 
put  hard  down,  and  she  came  boldly  around 
under  the  high  quarter-rail  of  her  intended 
victim. 

Alfred  had  taken  a  cutlass  and  pistols,  but 
he  had  determined  not  to  use  them  save  in 
defense  of  his  own  life. 

"Ha!     What  is  this  ?  "  cried  Pettrell. 

All  eyes  Avere  turned  to  the  side  of  the 
ship  just  in  time  to  see  two  heavy  guns 
showing  their  wide-mouthed  muzzles  through 
port-holes  that  had  not  been  before  noticed, 
the  ports  having  been  removed  but  an  in- 
stant before  the  guns  were  run  out. 

The  pirates  discovered  their  error  too  late, 
for  while  they  were  huddled  together  for  a 
leap,  the  ship's  guns  belched  forth  a  load  of 
iron  hail  that  made  terrific  work  among 
them.  Wild  and  loud  were  the  cries  and 
curses  that  rang  out  upon  the  air,  and  be- 
fore the  pirates  had  recovered  from  their 
shock  their  brig  had  fallen  off  more  than  two 
cables'  lenfrths. 


Pettrell  ran  his  eyes  over  the  deck,  and 
found  that  eight  of  his  men  were  dead. 

"  Spi'ing  to  the  larboard  braces  I  "  he 
shouted.  "  Haul  them  in  smartly.  Port 
the  helm.  We'll  board  that  fellow,  if  we  do 
it  at  the  cost  of  half  our  blood!  Work 
quick!  " 

The  men  worked  quickly  enough,  but  the 
brig  did  not  work.  She  was  all  aback  when 
she  began  to  drift  off,  and  as  her  yards  came 
up  on  the  starboard  tack  with  her  helm  a- 
port,  she  just  came  into  the  wind  and  there 
she  stuck.  Pettrell  stamped  and  swore,  and 
by  the  time  he  got  his  sails  full  again,  the 
ship  had  filled  away,  and  as  she  came  off  to 
her  course  she  brought  the  brig  directly 
under  her  larboard  beam. 

"  Good  heavens!  there  come  her  guns 
again!  "  exclaimed  Waffon. 

And  Waffon  spoke  truly,  for  on  the  next 
instant  a  twenty-four  pound  ball  came  crash- 
ing through  the  brig's  mainmast,  while  a 
load  of  grape  was  rained  upon  her  deck. 

Mark  Bronkon  uttered  a  low  groan  of  pain, 
and  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  side  he  sank 
back  upon  the  trunk  of  the  cabin  companion- 
way.  Alfred  sprang  to  his  side  and  raised 
him  up. 

At  that  instant  the  mainmast  went  over 
the  side  with  a  thundering  crash,  snapping 
the  shrouds  off  just  above  the  dead-eyes, 
while  the  ship  stood  freely  off  out  of  harm's 
way. 

"Are  you  hurt?  "asked  Alfred,  as  he 
bore  the  mate  up. 

"  Ah — is  that  you  ?  Yes,  yes.  Some- 
thing struck  me  here.  I  feel  faint.  Help 
me  below." 

The  mate  pressed  his  hand  hard  upon  his 
left  side  as  he  spoke,  and  the  youth  could  see 
the  blood  trickling  out  from  beneath  the 
large  fingers.  With  a  heavy  step  Bronkon 
sought  the  companion-way,  and  leaning 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  weight  upon  Alfred, 
he  gained  his  berth. 

"  There,"  he  murmured,  "  leave  me  now, 
and  go  on  deck.  You  may  be  wanted. 
Send  Waffon  down  as  soon  as  he  can  be 
spared.  Don't  stop — I  am  well  enough  now. 
But— you — may  send  Waffon  down  now." 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


Alfred  could  see  that  Bronkon  was  endur- 
in_ir  severe  pain,  and  having  handed  the 
suffering  man  a  can  of  water,  he  hastened 
on  deck  after  WafEon. 

"Ah!  what's  in  the  wind  now  ?"  cried 
Pettrell,  as  he  met  Alfred  upon  the  quarter- 
deck. 

•'  I  have  carried  Bronkon  below,  sir.  He 
is  very  badly  wounded,  I  fear." 

"The  Lord  save  us  I  I  thought  you  had 
been  caulking.  Poor  Bronkon!  Well,  well, 
1  hope  it  won't  prove  fatal.  Curse  the  ship! 
Go  and  hunt  up  Waffon,  and  send  him 
down." 

WafEon  was  found  at  work  clearing  away 
the  wreck  made  by  the  fall  of  the  mainmast, 
and  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  Bronkon's  acci- 
dent, he  hastened  away  to  attend  to  his 
wants,  requesting  Alfred  to  accompany  and 
assist  him. 

The  wounded  mate  was  laid  upon  the  cab- 
in table,  and  removing  his  clothing,  it  was 
found  that  some  kind  of  shot  had  entered 
the  second  and  third  false  ribs,  having  brok- 
en the  third  rib.  The  flesh  was  consider- 
ably lacerated,  and  a  large  quantity  of  blood 
had  escaped.  Waffoj^  probed  the  wound, 
and  soon  his  wire  touched  the  shot. 

"  What  is  it,  Waffon  ?  "  asked  Bronkon, 
"  Will  it  finish  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  yet.  Can  you  stand  it  to 
have  the  shot  taken  out  ?  " 

"  Yes — anything." 

Waffon  produced  a  pair  of  long-billed  for- 
ceps, and  after  much  exertion  he  drew  forth 
the  missile,  but  it  caused  the  patient  to  utter 
a  sharp  cry  of  pain.  It  proved  to  be  half  of 
a  copper  deck-bolt. 

•'  Good  gracious!  "  uttered  Bronkon,  as  he 
saw  the  missile;  "  what  a  savage  thing  for 
a  Christian  to  fire!  " 

"  'Tis  an  awkward  thing,"  added  Waffon, 
as  he  placed  a  clean  napkin  to  the  wound  to 
stop  the  increased  flow  of  blood. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  urged  the  suffering 
man,  "  will  this  finish  me  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  cannot  tell!  "  returned 
Waffon. 

•'  But  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  The  chances  are  against  you." 


"  I  thought  so." 

Bronkon's  eye  rested  upon  Alfred  as  he 
spoke,  and  a  sudden  spark  lit  up  its  dark 
depths.  He  seemed  to  start  with  some  sud- 
den emotion,  and  still  he  gazed  into  the 
5-outh's  face.  The  spark  that  burned  in  his 
eye  gradually  spread  its  light  over  his  whole 
face,  and  a  breaking  smile  played  for  an  in- 
stant about  his  mouth.  It  was  a  calm,  quiet 
smile;  very  different  from  that  which  was  to 
break  so  bitterly  about  those  curling  lips. 

"  You  handle  me  as  though  I  was  a  sick 
baby,"  he  said,  at  length,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
on  the  young  man. 

"  I  handle  you  carefully,  for  I  know  you 
must  be  in  pain,"  returned  Alfred. 

"  It  has  been  many,  many  years  since  I 
have  felt  a  tender  hand  before.  One  so 
rough  as  I  doesn't  need  it." 

"  You'll  need  all  the  care  you  can  get 
now,"  said  Waffon,  as  he  pinned  together 
the  last  bandage,  and  helped  Bronkon  into 
his  berth. 

"  You  shall  not  suffer  for  the  want  of  it 
while  I  am  able  to  care  for  you,"  added  Al- 
fred. 

"  I  shall  live  a  few  days  ?  "  he  murmured. 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  assented  Waffon. 

"  Then  I  am  satisfied.  Yet  'tis  hard  to 
die  so;  to  be  hurried  off  to  another  world 
with  such  a  soul  as  mine!  My  God!  why 
was  I  cast  upon  such  a  fate  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the 
suffering  man  that  touched  him  to  the  soul. 
There  was  a  depth  of  feeling  that  betrayed  a 
heart  that  had  been  crushed.  Long  after 
Waffon  had  gone  on  deck,  did  Alfred  stand 
by  the  mate's  side  and  hold  his  weakening 
hand. 

"  Did  he  not  say  I  should  live  three 
days?" 

"  He  said  a  few  days." 

"  Yes,  that  will  do;  but  I  shall  never  see 
Old  England  again.  Alfred,  you  may  be 
wanted  on  deck." 

"  But  you  may  want  something." 

"  No,  not  at  present.  Go  on  deck  now. 
I  shall  live  a  few  days;  but  before  I  die,  I 
shall  have  something  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?  " 


42        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


" shl    Breathe  not  a  word  to  another 

earl    Yes,  for  you.     Who  is  that  ?  " 

Alfred  turned  his  head  and  saw  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Ah,  Mark,  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  laid  out 
in  this  fashion!  "  said  Pettrell,  as  he  came 
down. 

"  It's  fate,  Marrok,  fate!  I  may  as  well 
be  laid  out  here,  as  anywhere.  The  world 
won't  suffer  at  my  loss." 

Pettrell  turned  towards  Alfred  and  mo- 
tioned for  him  to  leave  the  cabin.  Our 
hero  obeyed  the  silent  order,  and  as  he 
reached  the  deck  he  stopped  a  moment  by 
the  trunk,  and  he  thought  he  heard  Pettrell 
pronounce  his  name  in  an  anxious  tone.  He 
stopped  to  listen.  He  could  hear  the  hum 
of  voices,  and  could  hear  that  the  subject  of 
conversation  was  exciting  to  those  engaged 
in  it,  but  he  caught  no  clue  to  its  purport. 


CHAPTEK   XIV. 

THE  DYIXG  pirate's  KEVELATION. 

The  mainmast  was  secured  alongside,  and 
as  soon  as  it  was  made  safe,  attention  was 
turned  to  the  burying  of  the  dead.  Twelve 
of  the  brig's  crew  had  been  killed,  and  three 
more,  including  Bronkon,  had  been  wound- 
ed. The  services  of  interment  were  very 
brief,  and  only  a  few  moments  elapsed  from 
the  time  of  preparation  till  the  ocean's  bos- 
om closed  over  the  corpse.  There  were  no 
prayers,  no  funeral  rites,  only  the  bodies 
were  sewed  up  in  white  hammocks  and  con- 
signed to  the  grave  of  waters. 

As  soon  as  this  had  been  done  the  men 
went  to  work  again  upon  the  floating  main- 
mast. The  rigging  was  got  off  and  taken 
inboard;  the  top-gallant  and  topmast  were 
got  over,  and  then  the  lower  mast  was  taken 
in,  which  was  done  by  means  of  a  pair  of 
shears  formed  of  spare  spars.  The  lower 
mast  was  got  in  its  place  and  very  strongly 
fished  and  wedged,  and  before  night  on  the 
following  day,  the  brig  Avas  once  more  in 
sailing  order,  though  much  care  was  neces- 
sary that  too  much  strain  did  not  come  upon 
the  mainmast. 

Pettrell  was   cross  and  crabbed,  and  he 


swore  more  than  ever.  For  half  an  hour  at 
a  time  he  would  pace  the  deck,  speaking  to 
no  one,  and  hardly  answering  such  questions 
as  were  put  to  him.  The  recent  defeat  had 
not  only  worried  him,  but  he  seemed  moved 
by  some  other  cause.  The  name  of  the 
wounded  mate  was  often  upon  his  lips,  and  at 
such  times  he  would  stop  suddenly  in  his 
nervous  walk  and  clasp  his  hands  together. 

It  was  the  third  day  after  the  conflict  with 
the  American.  Bronkon  was  worse,  and 
Waffon  had  given  him  but  a  short  time  long- 
er to  live.  Evening  had  set  in  and  passed, 
and  the  first  watch  had  been  mustered.  It 
was  Pettrell's  watch,  but  at  an  earnest  re- 
quest of  the  mate,  Alfred  was  allowed  to 
remain  below. 

Shortly  after  eight  o'clock,  Dunham  came 
down  and  turned  in,  and  ere  long  he  slept 
soundly,  for  it  was  the  first  chance  he  had 
had  since  the  battle. 

"  Alfred,"  said  Bronkon,  as  he  worked 
himself  hea^-'ly  over  upon  his  side,  "  I  am 
dying.    I  feel  the  icy  hand  upon  my  vitals." 

"  I  hope  you  may  die  happy!"  returned 
the  youth. 

"•  Ah,  that  is  a  vain  wish!  " 

"■  Perhaps  not.  Heaven  is  not  shut  to  him 
who  sincerely  repents." 

'•  God  knows  I  can  repent!  "  uttered  the 
dying  pirate,  with  earnestness;  "  but  Heav- 
en cannot  blot  out  the  memory  of  the 
past.  If  there  is  a  hell,  Alfred,  it  must  be  im- 
aged in  the  memory  of  a  dying  sinner.  But 
my  weakness  is  making  me  childish.  The 
grim  ghost  of  old  death  almost  frightens 
me." 

"  Bronkon,"  said  the  youth  reaching  forth 
and  taking  one  of  the  man's  hands  in  his 
own,  "  you  are  not  lost  to  every  good  feel- 
ing. You  have  still  a  soul,  and  if  I  am  not 
in  error,  your  early  life  has  been  poisoned 
by  disappointment." 

"  S'death!  who  told  you  that  ?  "  uttered 
Bronkon,  raising  his  head  quickly  from  his 
pillow. 

"  No  one  but  yourself.  I  have  not  failed 
to  see  that  you  have  often  crushed  back  good 
feelings  that  were  rising  in  your  bosom  for 
utterance.     I  have  seen  the  dark  frown  upon 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


43 


your  brow  grow  darker  when  I  knew  it  cost 
you  an  effort  to  make  it  so." 

Bronkon's  head  settled  back  upon  his  pil- 
low. 

"  You  may  be  right,"  he  said.  "  But 
enough  of  that.  I  have  called  for  you  to  tell 
the  story  of  my  life,  and  when  it  is  told,  you 
will  not  wonder  that  I  have  looked  upon  you 
with  strangely  conflicting  feelings.  Arc  we 
safe  from  other  ears  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  Alfred. 

"  Then  bend  your  head  nearer.  There. 
You  will  not  breathe  a  word  of  what  I  may 
tell  you  to  a  soul  on  board  of  this  brig  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  youth,  in  a  trembling  tone. 

Bronkon  closed  his  eyes,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment he  writhed  beneath  the  effects  of  the 
pain  that  worked  along  his  nerves  and  mus- 
cles. 

"  Alfred,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  low, 
trembling  tone.  "  I  have  been  at  times 
most  wretched;  but  I  have  suffered  enough 
— suffered  when  no  man  knew  it.  I  was  not 
always  wicked.  My  j^ounger  days  were  all 
joyous  and  happy,  and  plenty  was  mine.  At 
an  early  age  I  saw  a  girl  whom  I  loved. 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  heaven  itself,  and  I 
loved  her  as  man  may  never  love  but  once. 
1  thought  she  returned  my  love,  for  she  bore 
me  company  and  seemed  to  enjoy  my  society. 
1  was  lost — utterly  lost — in  the  heaven  of 
my  own  love,  and  1  dreamed  not  that  a  cloud 
could  shut  out  my  happy  vision.  But  that 
cloud  came.  Another— a  wealthier  suitor — 
one  of  higher  rank — came,  and  my  idol 
turned  from  me.  I  begged,  I  implored — 
on  my  bended  knees  I  besought  the  beloved 
girl  to  have  compassion  on  me;  but  I  found 
too  late  that  she  did  not  love  as  I  had 
thought.  She  married  my  rival.  Oh,  what 
a  sea  of  fire  rolled  over  my  heart  then  I  " 

Bronkon  clasped  his  hands  upon  his  bos- 
om and  groaned.  It  was  pain  that  moved 
him,  but  it  was  bitter  memory  that  made 
him  weak  enough  to  groan. 

"  You  may  never  know  such  a  keen  tor- 
ture as  I  then  suffered,"  resumed  the  pirate. 
*'  It  made  me  reckless  and  careless  of  life. 
But  it  was  an  unlucky  hour  for  my  soul  when 
I   fell  in  with  Marrok  rettrelll     A  strange 


bond  of  sympathy  found  its  way  to  our  mu- 
tual knowledge,  and  we  went  forward  on  the 
path  of  revenge  together.  The  man  who 
had  stolen  away —  no,  no,  I  will  not  say  that. 
It  was  not  his  fault  that  he  loved  her,  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  me.  But  the  man  who  had 
won  my  love  for  his  bride,  had  incurred  the 
sworn  enmity  of  Pettrell,  and  he  only  sought 
for  revenge.  We  had  revenge,  and  it  was 
dreadful  1  O  God,  forgive  me!  That  was 
the  most  wicked  act  of  all  my  life." 

The  speaker  stopped  and  raised  his  hand 
to  his  brow. 

"  Alfred,"  he  whispered,  "  you  were  the 
child    of   that    woman  I  loved  so  wildly  T 

sh !    She  now  sleeps,  and  I  shall  see  her 

in  Heaven.  Heaven!  oh,  if  I  should  never 
reach  it!  " 

"  Great  God!  and  was  my  mother" 

" sh!    I  know  what  you  would  ask. 

She  died  soon  after  she  gave  you  birth. 
Hers  was  a  death  that  no  mortal  hand  could 
have  stayed.  She  sleeps  beneath  a  marble 
slab  in  St.  Margaret's  yard  at  Westminster. 
There  are  marks  of  my  tears  upon  that 
stone." 

"  Mark  Bronkon,  tell  me  of  my  father," 
uttered  Alfred. 

"  I  will  give  you  more  than  you  ask — 
more  than  you  would  dare  to  hope  for — but 
I  dare  not  have  you  know  the  whole  story 
while  you  are  with  Pettrell.  Alfred,  I'm 
growing  weak.     There's  drink  in  that  cup." 

The  youth  handed  the  cup  to  the  dying 
man,  and  he  placed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Now  reach  your  hand  beneath  my  mat- 
tress," said  Bronkon,  as  the  cup  was  set 
back  upon  the  table,  "  and  you  will  feel  a 
package.     Give  it  to  me," 

The  youth  did  as  he  was  directed,  and 
drew  forth  a  package  of  papers.  They  felt 
like  papers,  but  they  were  folded  carefully 
in  a  piece  of  oiled  silk,  and  tied  with  a  piece 
of  string.     Bronkon  took  it. 

"  See  if  any  one  is  near  us,"  he  said. 

Alfred  walked  carefully  to  the  foot  of  the 
ladder;  but  he  found  that  no  one  was  over- 
hearing, and  he  returned  to  the  pirate's 
side. 

"  In  this  package,"  said  Bronkon,  "  there 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN:  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


is  all  concerning  your  father  that  you  could 
wish  to  ask.  MaiTok  Pettrell  thinks  these 
papers  were  burned  long  ago,  but  I  burned 
a  blank  package  in  their  stead,  and  these  I 
have  kept ;  for,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  I 
have  long  repented  the  deed  I  helped  to  con- 
summate. When  I  last  stood  upon  the  spot 
where  the  mortal  remains  of  her  I  loved 
were  laid,  I  lost  all  my  revenge;  my  heart 
softened  in  its  bitterness,  and  I  thought  of 
doing  justice  to  her  son.  When  I  give  you 
this  package,  I  shall  have  done  all  that  lies 
in  my  power.  I  cannot  restore  to  you  all 
that  you  have  been  robbed  of.  Your  father 
long  since  has  passed  away  from  earth,  and 
he  left  behind  him  a  son  upon  whose  head 
rests  the  stigma  of  disgrace;  but  here  is  that 
which  will  clear  your  name  from  dishonor. 
If  I  give  it  to  you,  will  you  promise  me  that 
you  will  not  open  it  while  you  are  on  board 
this  brig?  " 

"  If  that  be  your  request." 

•*  It  is  my  request;  and  you  cannot  have 
them  otherwise.     I  will  trust  your  honor." 

"  I  pledge  myself  to  obey  you.  But  oh, 
tell  me  something  of  my  father!  " 

"  I  can  only  tell  you  this:  I  saw  his  cold 
form  given  to  the  same  grave  that  ere  long 
will  receive  mine.  I  saw  him  buried,  and  I 
saw  the  blue  waters  close  over  him.  There, 
ask  me  no  more.  Pass  me  the  drink  again; 
I  am  faint." 

Bronkon  took  the  can,  but  he  had  not  the 
strength  to  hold  it,  and  Alfred  supported  it 
to  his  lips. 

''  I  do  not  taste  it.  It  slips  over  my 
tongue  without  its  usual  flavor.  Put  it  back. 
Raise  my  pillow.  Alfred." 

The  youth  raised  the  dying  man's  head, 
and  he  saw  those  dark  eyes  were  fast  losing 
their  lustre. 

"  Put  those  papers  in  your  bosom,"  feebly 
whispered  the  pirate.  "  Let  not  Pettrell 
see  them,  as  you  value  your  life.  Ah,  what 
was  that  ?  " 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  returned  Alfred,  bend- 
ing nearer  to  the  dying  man. 

"  But  I  did.  I  hear  the  howl  of  the  tem- 
pest. There!  was  not  that  a  sea  that  broke 
over  us?     O  God,  what  a  dreadful  cry  was 


that!  Some  one  is  drowning.  Alfred,  hear 
the  roar  of  the  surge,  and  hear  that  wild  cry 
again!  " 

Alfred  could  hear  nothing  save  the  dull 
rippling  of  the  waves  against  the  vessel's 
run,  and  the  rattling  of  the  cordage  upon 
deck. 

'•  Remember,"'  whispered  Bronkon, "  open 
not  those  papers  till  you  are  clear  of  Mar- 
rok  Pettrell.  Hark!  Who  spoke  to  me 
then?" 

"  Xo  one  spoke,"  said  Alfred. 

''  Yes — yes — I  heard  her  voice!  " 

The  pirate  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow, 
and  gazed  fixedly  into  the  face  ©f  the  youth 
beside  him,  but  his  arm  weakened,  and  he 
sank  back. 

"  Do  you  feel  much  pain  ?  "  said  Alfred. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  motion  of  the  head 
from  side  to  side,  but  no  answer. 

Alfred  reached  forth  and  took  the  hand  of 
the  fallen  man,  but  it  was  cold.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  leaned  over,  but  he  heard  no 
breath.  The  rays  of  the  hanging-lamp  fell 
upon  the  pirate's  face,  but  they  revealed 
features  that  had  no  expression.  For  a  few 
moments  he  stood  there  and  gazed  into  those 
dark  features,  and  then  he  started  from  the 
strange  thoughts  that  were  crowding  upon 
him,  and  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  storm- 
beaten  brow  of  the  pirate,  and  whispered  a 
simple  prayer.  Then  Alfred  drew  the  blan- 
kets smoothly  over  the  motionless  form,  and 
and  having  felt  in  his  bosom  to  see  that  the 
package  was  safe,  he  hurried  on  deck  to  tell 
the  captain  that  Mark  Bronkon  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  Xy. 

THE    ST0R31-AVEXGER. 

Alfred  stood  by  and  saw  the  corpse  of 
the  pirate  mate  consigned  to  the  ocean,  and 
as  he  turned  away  from  the  scene,  his  soul 
was  the  seat  of  strange  emotions.  He  was 
soon  aroused  from  his  reverie  by  the  weight 
of  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  on  turning, 
he  met  the  gaze  of  Pettrell. 


THE  STORM  CHILDltEN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


45 


"  What  sort  of  a  story  did  Mark  Bronkon 
tell,  before  he  died  ?  "  asked  the  pirate  cap- 
tain, in  a  low  tone. 

"  Nothinc:,"  quickly  returned  Alfred;  for 
he  hesitated  not  an  instant  at  the  thought  of 
deceivin-^  the  base  wretch  who  was  seeking 
his  ruin. 

"  Sonicthingl  He  told  you  something," 
said  Pettrell,  while  he  sought  to  read  the 
vcM-y  thought-marks  upon  the  youth's  face. 

'•  So  he  did.  He  told  me  of  his  suffering 
and  approaching  death." 

"  Don't  attempt  to  deceive  me.  He  told 
you  mox'e  than  that.  Just  tell  me  what  has 
given  j'our  face  that  strange  look  of  anxious 
concern  since  last  night  ?  What  has  made 
you  cast  such  searching,  meaning  glances  at 
me  ?  By  heaven,  there's  something  in  the 
wind!     Now  out  with  it!  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  thought,  Mar- 
rok  Pettrell.  I  have  thought  of  the  fearful 
price  you  have  paid  for  the  cargo  you  now 
have  on  board.    Seventeen  human  souls!  " 

"Ah!" 

"  Yes.  And  I  have  thought,  too,  thai 
those  souls  are  but  the  tirst  instalment  upon 
a  still  more  fearful  i-etribution." 

"Stuff!" 

"  No,  no,  Pettrell,  you  cannot  so  easily 
hide  the  truth  from  your  soul.  Let  me  tell 
you  one  other  thing  that  has  held  a  place  in 
my  thoughts." 

"  Silence!  " 

"Let  me  speak  but  this:  I  have  thought 
that  you  dared  not  look  far  into  the  future. 
You  may  dwell  as  you  please  upon  the  past, 
and  revel  recklessly  in  the  wild  passions  of 
your  present  career,  but  you  cannot,  with- 
out trembling,  look  forward  to  that  which  is 
to  come.     Do  I  not  speak  the  truth  ?  " 

"No.  You  lie!"  gasped  the  pirate  cap- 
tain. 

"Then  my  thoughts,  since  the  death  of 
Mark  Bronkon,  have  only  reached  to  a  lie," 
calmly,  but  emphatically,  returned  Alfred. 

"Now  you  lie  again!  Mark  Bronkon 
blabbed  something  to  you;  but  little  good 
will  it  do  you." 

,  Marrok  Pettrell  was  in  a  rage  when  he 
turned  away.    How  much  he  might  have 


suspected  Alfred  could  not  judge,  but  the 
young  man  felt  that  his  secret  was  safe,  and 
he  had  no  fear  that  the  evil  man  could  wrest 
it  from  him. 

It  was  evident  that  the  ardor  of  the  crew 
had  been  dampened  by  the  late  catastrophe, 
and  in  the  loss  of  the  mate  they  felt  that 
they  had  lost  their  best  man.  Yet  they  were 
ripe  for  evil  as  ever,  and  they  stood  ready  to 
retrieve  their  fortunes  by  any  means  that 
might  present  itself. 

On  the  fifth  day  after  the  death  of  Bron- 
kon, a  sail  was  reported  to  the  southward, 
nearly  in  the  pirate's  wake;  but  Pettrell  had 
no  thought  of  turning  from  his  course.  At 
night  the  sail  was  lost  to  sight,  and  on  the 
following  morning  it  was  not  to  be  seen. 
Several  times  during  the  three  succeeding 
days,  the  same  sail,  or  one  precisely  similar, 
was  seen  in  the  same  direction. 

On  the  morning  of  the  tenth  day,  when 
the  light  of  the  rising  sun  beamed  over  the 
waters,  the  strange  ship  was  made  out 
astern,  and  her  heavy  courses  could  be  seen. 
Waffon  was  seen  aloft  with  the  glass,  and  at 
the  end  of  five  minutes  he  came  back  again, 
his  face  pale  with  excitement. 

"It's  a  sloop-of-war! ''  he  said,  as  he 
reached  the  quarter-deck. 

Marrok  Pettrell  started  forward  and  caught 
the  glass,  and  then  sprang  up  the  main-rig- 

"It's  a  sloop-of-war!"  he  uttered,  when 
he  returned  to  the  deck. 

"  Then  she  must  have  been  lying  in  Tene- 
riffe  when  that  American  ship  went  in," 
said  Dunham. 

"  Yes,  and  she  is  now  after  us,"  added 
Pettrell. 

The  men  gathered  aft  with  anxious  faces, 
for  they  had  heard  the, report,  and  they 
seemed  to  be  aware  of  the  danger  of  their 
situation. 

"  If  she  has  seen  us,"  said  Waffou, 
"there  is  no  such  thing  as  running  away 
from  her." 

"  By  the  great  heavens,  we  must  run 
away!"  uttered  Pettrell.  "The  coast  of 
Old  England  will  be  in  sight  in  a  few  hours, 
at  least;  and  if  nothing  else  can  save  us,  we 


4Q        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


must  take  our  money  and  make  the  best 
landing  we  can.  The  mainmast  must  stand 
her  full  sails.  Get  up  the  larboard  stun'- 
sails,  sir,  and  have  them  set." 

"Waffon  urged  that  the  mast  would  not 
bear  it,  but  he  was  overruled,  and  the  sails 
were  set.  The  wind  was  fresh  from  the 
southward  and  westward,  and  as  the  main- 
mast felt  the  force  of  the  new  power,  it 
bent  and  creaked  beneath  the  load. 

"  She'll  never  bear  it,"  uttered  Waffon. 

''  She  must  bear  it,"  was  Pettrell's  laconic 
reply,  as  he  levelled  his  glass  upon  the  ship. 
*'  By  my  soul,  we  can  hold  our  own  with  her 
now.  If  we  can  but  stand  on  clear  of  her 
guns  till  night  we  are  safe." 

"  Land  hoi  "  came  at  this  moment  from 
the  foretopmast  cross-trees. 

•■  Where  away  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  start- 
ing forward. 

'■•  Three  points  on  the  lee  bow,"  replied 
the  man  aloft. 

•'The  Scilly  Islands,"  said  Pettrell. 
*' Foretop,  there!  Can  you  make  out  a 
beacon  ?  " 

••  Think  I  can." 

••  That's  St.  Agnes.  By  heavens,  "Waffon, 
■we  shall  pass  the  islands  by  noon,  and  before 
night  we  shall  be  well  up  on  the  Cornwall 
coast.  We'll  give  that  war-dog  the  slip 
vet." 

The  crew  were  somewhat  re-assured  by 
the  manner  of  the  captain,  and  they  cheer- 
fully turned  their  vv^hole  energies  to  the 
working  of  the  brig.  It  was  soon  evident 
that  the  sloop-of-war  was  not  gaining — or 
at  least  not  enough  to  be  perceptible.  She 
siill  maintained  about  the  same  distance. 
The  heads  of  her  courses  were  in  sight,  and 
from  the  tops  a  heavy  swell  would  ever  and 
iiuongive  a  view  of  her  bulwarks. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  the  Scilly  Islands 
had  lieeit  left  upon  the  starboard  quarter, 
and  then  the  brig's  head  was  put  towards 
the  coast  of  Cornwall.  At  length  the  inter- 
vening islands  shut  the  pursuing  ship  from 
sight,  and  the  pirates  began  to  count  confi- 
dently upon  their  safety.  Pettrell  decided, 
after  some  consultation  with  AVaffon  and 
I)anham,  to   run  for   Barnstaple   Bay,   and 


make  the  mouth  of  the  river  Taw,  if  pos- 
sible. 

At  three  o'clock  the  log  was  thrown,  and 
the  brig  was  going  ten  knots  strong. 

"  At  this  rate,"  said  Pettrell,  "  we  shall 
reach  the  bay  by  midnight.  It  is  only  about 
ninety-five  miles.  It  will  be  nearly  dark  by 
the  time  the  ship  can  see  us  agam.  Cheer 
up,  cheer  up,  for  we  are  safe  yet." 

"  But  this  wind  nin't  agoin'  to  hold  on 
so,"  said  Waffon.  '•  We'll  have  a  change 
■when  the  sun  goes  down." 

"  Then  let  it  come,"  returned  the  captain, 
"  We  can  stand  it." 

"  Perhaps  we  can,"  murmured  Waffon, 
half  to  himself,  as  he  cast  his  eyes  off 
towards  the  westward,  where  a  low,  dark 
cloud-bank  rested  upon  the  ocean.  He  did 
not  speak  all  that  he  felt,  for  he  would  not 
give  unnecessary  alarm  to  the  men;  but  he 
knew  all  the  weather  signs  of  those  seas, 
and  he  saw  an  ominous  one  in  the  cloud- 
bank  that  arrested  his  attention. 

Just  before  sundown  the  ship  was  made 
out  again  astern,  but  the  attention  of  the 
crew  was  soon  called  from  her  by  the  lulling 
of  the  breeze. 

"Look  off  there,  cap'n,"  said  Waffon, 
pointing  to  the  west.  "  What  does  that 
look  like?". 

"It  looks  bad,"  said  Pettrell,  with  a  slight 
shudder. 

Where  the  cloud-bank  had  lain,  the  hori- 
zon was  changing  to  that  color  of  bluish 
blackness  which  is  more  terrible  in  its  look 
than  the  clear  sable,  and  clear  away  off,  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  little  caps  of 
white  could  be  seen  upon  the  wave-tops. 

"We  shall  have  it  strong,  sir,"  said 
Waffon. 

"  I  believe  you." 

"  A  regular  September  gale." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Pettrell,  "  But  we 
must  get  the  canvass  off  from  our  main- 
must.  By  my  soul,  this  is  unlucky.  Only 
six  hours  longer,  and  we  might  have  been 
clear," 

All  haste  was  made  to  get  the  sail  in,  and 
soon  the  brig  lay  under  close-reefed  topsails 
and  a  storm  staysail.     By  dark  the  gale  was 


THE  STORM    CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


4T 


up  in  all  its  fury,  and  at  length  it  was  found 
necessary  to  bring  the  brig  to  the  wind.  In 
performing  this  evolution  the  lee  fore-topsail 
parted  and  the  sail  was  almost  instantly 
snapped  into  ribbons. 

"  By  heavens  I  "  cried  Pettrell,  as  he  stood 
and  saw  the  fore-topsail  snapping  in  the 
wind,  "  if  the  main" 

His  exclamation  was  cut  short  by  the 
brig's  being  brought  dead  to  the  wind.  Of 
course  the  main-topsail  was  taken  aback. 
The  vessel  heaved  and  pitched,  and  just  as 
Pettrell  had  given  off  orders  to  ease  the 
main-topsail  sheet  and  clue  up  the  sail,^the 
heavy  mainmast  snapped  its  fishing,  carried 
away  its  leading  stays,  and  fell  with  a  thun- 
dering, resistless  crash  over  the  stern. 

For  some  time  all  hands  were  paralyzed 
with  terror.  Two  men  who  were  at  the 
wheel  were  killed,  and  several  more  bruised. 
The  mainmast  was  gone,  and  the  fore-top- 
sail was  too  far  gone  for  use.  The  foresail 
could  be  of  no  use,  for  the  brig  could  not  lay 
to  under  it,  as  the  heavy  sea  would  keep  the 
wind  from  it. 

*'  How  far  are  we  from  the  shore  ?  "  said 
Dunham. 

"  Not  over  twelve  miles,"  returned  Pet- 
trell. 

"  With  a  prospect  of  beinjj  nearer  very 
fast,"  added  Waffon. 

*'  "We  must  put  the  foresail  on,"  said  Dun- 
ham, "  and  try  to  lay  along.  That's  the 
only  thing  we  can  do  now." 

Pettrell  agreed  to  this  proposition,  and 
after  the  brig's  head  had  been  got  off,  the  lee 
clue  of  the  foresail  was  set;  but  it  would  not 
keep  the  wind,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  ill- 
fated  vessel  was  knocked  off  into  the  trough 
of  the  sea.  Again  did  the  despairing 
crew  try  to  bring  the  brig  to  the  wind,  but 
all  to  no  purpose. 

*'  It's  no  use  I  "  uttered  the  captain,  as  for 
the  last  time  she  refused  to  come  up.  "  She 
must  go  as  she  will." 

"  Then  we  are  lost!  "  broke  from  the  lips 
of  a  dozen  men. 

''  Ouly  a  miracle  can  save  us,"  returned 
the  captain,  as  he  caught  the  rail  for  sup- 
port. 


"  This  may  be  the  sum  of  the  paymenti  " 
uttered  Alfred. 

Marrok  Pettrell  heard  the  remark,  but  he 
made  no  answer. 

The  sea  was  now  breaking  fearfully  over 
the  brig.  All  thoughts  of  making  further 
efforts  to  save  her  had  been  relinquished,  and 
the  men  were  clinging  to  the  racks  and  pins 
in  utter  despair.  Alfred  Harrold  alone,  of 
that  whole  crew  looked  upon  the  scene  with 
calmness.  There  may  have  been  a  pallor  on 
his  face,  a  slight  tremulousness  in  his  neth- 
er lip,  but  he  was  not  frightened.  He  looked 
forward  to  the  coming  crash  that  must  wreck 
the  brig  as  far  more  preferable  than  longer 
servitude  with  wickedness;  and  in  his  soul 
he  could  calmly  say  that  death  would  not 
strike  terror  there. 

Thus  passed  a  long  hour. 

"  Hark  I  "  fell  in  stirring  accents  from  the 
lips  of  one  of  the  men. 

"  The  coast!  "  uttered  Waffon. 

"  Lost,  losti  "  groaned  Pettrell. 

Above  the  roar  of  the  wind,  and  the  lash- 
ing of  the  sea  over  the  side  of  the  pirate 
brig,  could  be  heard  the  thundering  of  the 
distant  surge,  and  some  of  the  men,  to  whom 
such  a  thought  had  not  occurred  before  for 
years,  sank  down  upon  their  knees  and 
uttered  the  name  of  their  God  in  prayerl 
But  they  prayed  too  latel  The  hand  of  the 
avenger  was  upon  them,  and  their  hour  of 
reckoning  had  come. 

On  dashed  the  brig,  and  louder  grew  the 
thunder  of  the  surge.  There  was  a  grating 
of  the  brig's  keel,  a  shock;  then  on  again 
she  dashed.  Another  gratmg,  and  another 
shock,  another  space  of  short  moments,  and 
then  came  the  shock  that  fell  with  the  death 
touch.  The  brig  was  hurled  upon  her  side, 
and  the  mad  sea  tumbled  wildly  over  her. 
Alfred  felt  the  last  trembling  of  the  timbers 
beneath  his  feet,  and  his  right  hand  was 
pressed  upon  his  heart.  He  raised  his  eyes, 
and  through  the  darkness  he  could  see  a 
mountain  of  water  just  towering  above  him. 
On  it  came.  It  broke — a  wild  cry  sounded 
in  his  eare— his  hold  was  broken,  and  with  a 
single  thought  of  heaven  and  his  God,  he 
was  hurled  into  the  boiling,  surge  beyond. 


48 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

FORE-SHADOAVINGS. 

Alfred  ,Harrold  came  to  himself,  and 
he  found  that  the  sun  was  shining  down  on 
him.  It  was  sometime  ere  he  could  com- 
mand strength  enough  to  raise  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  but  he  at  length  accomplished  the 
undertaking.  He  found  himself  high  up  on 
a  sandy  beach,  and  half-buried  in  a  great 
mass  of  sea-weed.  His  joints  Avere  stiff,  but 
he  was  not  long  satisfying  himself  that  no 
bones  were  broken,  and  that  he  was  not  se- 
riously bruised.  His  right  shoulder  and 
hip  were  very  lame,  and  the  right  side  of  his 
head  he  found  to  be  somewhat  sore.  He  had 
evidently  struck  amongst  the  sea-weed,  and 
then  was  washed  up  on  the  beach. 

It  must  have  been  nearly  half  an  hour 
from  the  time  our  hero  came  to  himself  be- 
fore he  got  upon  his  feet.  The  sea  was  still 
rolling  in,  but  the  gale  had  passed.  It  Avas 
a  loAv  beach  where  the  brig  had  struck,  but 
she  had  been  completely  knocked  to  pieces, 
and  her  cargo  Avas  scattered  all  around. 

At  some  distance  from  the  spot  Avhere  Al- 
fred stood  Avere  three  men— poor  fishermen, 
by  their  garb— who  were  hauling  up  a  dead 
body  from  the  wreck. 

"Ah!  you've  come  to,  eh  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  men,  approaching  our  hero.  "  We 
thought  there  was  life  in  ye.  What  a  narrer 
'scape  you've  had." 

*'  It  has  been  a  narrow  one,"  returned 
Alfred.  "  But  tell  me,  Avho  else  is  alive  of 
the  crew  ?  " 

"  Don't  know.  There  be  three  men  as 
went  off  an  hour  ago.  Guess  all  the  rest  be 
done  for." 

Alfred  looked  around  among  the  bodies 
that  Avere  upon  the  sand.  He  found  the  stiff 
corpse  of  Waffon  and  Dunham,  and  four- 
teen more;  but  noAvhere  could  he  find  Pet- 
trell.  He  asked  of  the  fishermen  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  men  Avho  had  gone. 

"  One  on  'em  Avas  a  real  bruiser,"  said  the 
man  to  whom  the  question  had  been  put. 
"  Had  a  great  scar  on  his  cheek,  one  on  his 
nose,  and  I  think  one  on  his  chin." 
"  Pettrelll  "  uttered  Alfred. 


"  Yes,  that  be  it.  I  hern  t'other  one  call 
'im  so." 

From  further  description,  Alfred  felt  satis- 
fied that  one  of  the  men  named  Paul  Gal- 
ium had  also  escaped;  but  the  third  he  could 
not  make  out.  The  youth  felt  glad  that  Gal- 
ium had  escaped,  for  he  had  been  his  friend; 
and  he  was  the  one,  too,  who  had  taken  the 
rope  from  Alfred's  neck  when  Pettrell  had 
thought  to  put  his  deadly  threat  into  execu- 
tion. 

"  So  you  be  a  smuggler,  eh  ?  "  said  one  of 
the  fishermen,  with  a  peculiar  wink. 

'^Yes,  that  is,  this  vessel  was  one,"  re- 
turned Alfred. 

"  Well,  your  capt'n  needn't  'ave  been  so 
afeared,  for  there  ben't  nobody  here  as 
would  harm  'im." 

At  this  moment  Alfred  thought  of  the 
package  he  had  received  from  Bronkon.  He 
placed  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  but  it  was 
gone!  For  a  moment  he  staggered  beneath 
the  blow;  but  coming  to  himself,  he  caught 
one  of  the  fishermen  by  the  arm. 

"  Who  has  robbed  me  ?  "  he  cried  "  Who 
has  taken  a  package  from  my  bosom  ?  " 

"  None  of  us  hain't  touched  it,"  said  the 
man. 

"  Them    other    fellers    as    Avent  off  felt 
around  ye,"  said  another;  "  and  one  on  'em 
picked  up  soraethin'  as  looked  like  a  paper." 
"  It  was  Pettrell,"  groaned  our  hero. 
"  Yes,"  said  the  fisherman. 
"O  God!"  ejaculated  Alfred,  as  the  full 
sense  of   his    loss    came    upon  him;    "he 
might  have  let  me  had  that!  " 

"Money,  eh?"  uttered  one  of  the  men, 
with  a  sort  of  sympathizing  look. 

Alfred  made  no  reply,  but  he  turned  to 
the  spot  from  whence  he  had  arisen  and 
searched  carefully  in  every  direction;  but 
he  could 'find  nothing  of  the  lost  package. 
It  was  gone,  and  the  youth  forgot  for  the 
time  to  thank  God  that  his  life  had  been 
saved. 

"  Come,"  said  one  of  the  fishermen,  "you 
must  be  hurt  an'  hungry.  Our  home  ben't 
fur  from  here.     Come." 

The  youth  did  feel  faint,  and  he  refused 
not  the  man's  offer.    He  gave  one  more 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


49 


search  after  the  lost  package,  but  without 
finding  it,  and  then  he  followed  the  man  up 
from  the  beach. 

The  fisherman's  hut  was  only  a  few  rods 
back  from  the  head  of  the  beach,  and  when 
our  hero  reached  it  he  inquired  in  what  part 
of  Cornwall  he  was.  He  learned  that  he 
was  about  fifteen  miles  south  of  Stratton, 
and  also  that  there  were  no  neighbors  with- 
in eight  miles  of  the  hut  where  he  was, 
save  a  few  more  fishermen  who  had  small 
cabins  along  the  head  of  the  shore. 

A  comfortable  bed  was  provided  for  Al- 
fred, and  towards  night  he  awoke  from  a  re- 
freshing sleep.  Some  decent  cordial  was 
procured  for  him,  and  one  of  the  fishermen 
cooked  him  a  palatable  supper.  Again  he 
sought  his  bed,  and  it  must  have  been  near- 
ly midnight  when  he  was  aroused  by  the 
sound  of  voices.  He  listened,  and  from 
such  of  the  conversation  as  he  could  over- 
hear, he  learned  that  the  three  fishermen 
had  found  two  boxes  of  the  money  which 
had  been  taken  from  the  Indiaman. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  our  hero 
arose  from  his  bed  greatly  refreshed,  and 
feeling  quite  strong.  He  partook  of  the 
plain  fare  that  was  set  before  him,  and  hav- 
ing finished  his  meal,  he  proposed  to  set 
forth. 

"You  ben't  got  no  money,  have   ye?" 
asked  one  of  the  fishermen. 
'•  No,"  returned  Alfred. 
The  three  fishermen  whispered  apart  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  their  spokesman 
turned  to  Alfred. 

"  Look  ye,"  said  he,  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression upon  his  brown  features.  "  I 
s'pose  we  may  get  somethin'  out  o'  the 
stuff  as  was  washed  ashore,  an'  as  part  of 
it  'longs  to  you,  why,  yer  see,  we  mout  gin 
yer  somethin'— say  four  gold  guineas,  oh  ?  '" 
Alfred  could  almost  have  smiled  at  the 
fellow's  manner,  since  he  knew  full  well  the 
secret  of  this  generosity;  but  he  betrayed 
no  sign  of  his  knowledge.  At  first  he 
thought  of  refusing  the  money;  but  he 
knew  that  he  might  need  it,  and  he  accepted 
it. 
"  Now,"  said  the  man  who  had  given  him 


the  money,  "let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  ad- 
vice. There's  been  sharks  artcr  yer,  an'  we 
set  'em  on  the  wrong  track.  There's  a 
sloop-o'-war  come  into  Padstow  yesterday, 
an'  they're  arter  pirates.  Some  on  'em  'ave 
been  up  here,  an'  we  set  'em  off  towards 
Camelford.  Now  you  jes'  tak(;  (he  fish-path 
right  straight  ahead  to  Stratton,  an'  from 
there  you  can  go  jes'  as  yer  like." 

"  I  am  no  pirate.  I  call  God  to  witness 
that  I  am  not,''  uttered  Alfred. 

"  Well,  p'r'aps  ye  ain't.  But  then  if  they 
think  ye  be,  why,  it's  all  the  same,  yer  see; 
so  yer'd  better  kind  o'  steer  clear,  ye  know." 
Alfred  wished  to  say  no  more,  so  he 
thanked  the  fishermen  for  their  kindness, 
and  set  off.  He  did  not  stop  to  look  for  the 
package  he  had  lost,  for  he  not  only  felt  con- 
fident that  Pettrell  had  got  it,  but  he  feared 
to  make  any  stop.  He  was  sure,  from  what 
the  fishermen  had  told  him,  that  the  pirates 
had  been  traced  to  their  wrecked  vessel,  and 
he  trembled  lest  he  should  be  arrested  as 
one  of  them. 

"  Great  God!  "  he  mentally  ejaculated,  as 
this  last  thought  occurred  to  him,  "  what  a 
fate  that  would  be  I— to  be  arrested  and 
dragged  before  the  public  as  a  pirate!  " 

The  thought  was  terrible,  and  it  presented 
a  reality,  too,  which  Alfred  could  not  easily 
drive  from  sight.  He  almost  felt  that  the 
black  doom  hung  over  him!  He  struggled, 
however^  to  overcome  the  fea'-,  and  he  par- 
tially succeeded.  He  knew  that  he  was  in- 
nocent, and  on  that  he  rested  his  hopes. 

The  narrow  road  was  easily  made  out,  and 
l)ofore  noon  our  hero  reached  Stratton.  It 
was  his  aim  to  make  tlie  best  of  his  way  to 
the  old  light-house  upon  Little  Devon  Head. 
From  Stratton  to  the  north  it  was  twelve 
miles  to  Hartlaud,  and  to  this  place  the  youtli 
determined  t«.  make  his  way,  only  stojpping 
in  Stratton  long  enough  to  get  a  morsel  to 
eat.  The  road  was  a  mere  cross-path  along 
near  the  seashore;  but  it  was  easy,  and  be- 
foi-e  (wo  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  (lie  travel- 
er reached  Hartland,  the  most  western  town 
of  Devonshire.  Here  he  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  find  a  stage  bound  to  Barnstaple,  a 
distance  of  twenty-eight  miles;  nnd  in  thi> 


60 


THE  STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


stage,  or,  rather,  on  this  stage,  he  secured  a 
passage. 

Alfred  rode,  outeide  with  the  driver,  the 
mail-guard  being  the  only  other  outside  pas- 
senger. The  driver  was  an  "  old  stager," 
and  by  dint  of  considerable  perseverance  he 
got  Alfred  into  a  conversati(>n. 

"  Been  to  sea  some,  hain't  ye  ?  "  he  asked. 

Alfred  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

*'  Ever  come  across  any  o'  them  wagabond 
pirates?  "  resumed  the  driver. 

The  youth  started,  and  for  a  moment  his 
head  swam;  but  his  companion's  attention 
was  at  that  time  directed  to  the  horses,  and 
he  soon  overcame  his  trepidation.  The 
mail-guard  was  seated  further  up,  so  he  did 
not  notice  the  emotion. 

"  I  have   seen  them,"  answered  our  hero. 

"  Blast  'em,  I  should  like  to  see  one  on 
'em.  There's  a  cutter — a  sloop-of-war's  cut- 
ter, I  b'lieve — come  up  to  the  pin't  this 
mornin',  and  they  said  suthin'  'bout  a  pi- 
rate's brig  bein'  cast  away  on  the  coast 
somewhere.  You  heard  anything  about 
it?" 

"  Yes,  I  did  hear  something  about  it,  but 
I  took  it  to  be  only  a  rumor.  By  the  way, 
that  i3  a  handsome  horse — that  starboard 
one  forward.  All  four  of  them  are  very 
handsome  ones,  and,  I  doubt  not,  good 
ones." 

''Good  ones!"  echoed  the  driver,  giving 
his  whip  an  extensive  flourish,  and  drawing 
the  reins  tighter.  "Good  ones!  Let  me 
tell  you  'at  last  Friday  week  I  drove  this 
team  from  Barnstaple  to  Exeter — an'  that's 
hard  on  to  forty  miles" 

"  Thirty-five,"  interupted  the  mail-guard. 

"Thirty-five  be  cussed!"  retorted  Jehu, 
not  at  all  thankful  for  the  matter-of-fact  in- 
terruption. "  But  as  I  was  sayin'— I  drove 
thi^  team  from  Barnstaple  to  Exeter — hard 
on  to  forty  miles— in  just  four  hours  and 
fo.ty-two  minutes;  an'  I  had  to  stop,  too,  at 
DipTord,  an'  Clumleigh,  at  Oldburrow,  an' 
at  the  Silverton  crossin'  for  passengers. 
That  was  this  team." 

Alfred  expressed  a  due  amount  of  wonder 
at  (his  marvelous  feat;  and  well  he  could 
aiT  rd  to,  since  he  had  accomplished  his  ob- 


ject in  drawing  his   companion's  thoughts 
away  from  the  pirates.    • 

"  Five-an '-thirty  miles!  "  growled  the  old 
stager,  as  he  flourished  his  whip  with  indig- 
nant emphasis.  "  These  mail-guards  thinks 
they  knows  everything." 

After  this  our  hero  listened  to  any  quanti- 
ty of  horse  stories,  and  by  flattering  the  pe- 
culiar vanity  of  the  driver,  he  had  risen 
wonderfully  in  the  old  fellow's  esteem  by 
the  time  the  stage  had  reached  Biddeford. 
Here  two  more  passengers  took  outside 
seats,  and  from  thence  to  Barnstaple  Alfred 
had  little  occasion  for  conversation.  It  was 
nightfall  when  they  reached  their  destina- 
tion, and  Alfred  took  lodgings  at  the  tavern 
where  the  stage  stopped.  He  had  been 
someAvhat  acquainted  in  Barnstaple  when 
he  was  with  Luke  Garron,  and  he  had  sev- 
eral times  stopped  at  the  very  tavern  where 
he  now  was;  but  no  one  recognized  him, 
and  as  he  had  no  desire  to  make  himself 
known,  he  kept  quietly  in  the  back-ground, 
merely  answering  such  questions  as  weie^ 
casually  asked  him,  and  at  an  early  hour  he 
sought  his  bed. 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  morning  Alfred 
descended  to  the  bar-room  of  the  tavern, 
where  he  found  quite  a  number  of  th« 
town's  people  assembled,  who  were  engaged 
in  reading  a  placard  that  had  been  posted 
upon  the  wall.  Our  hero  walked  up  to  the 
spot,  and  found  that  the  object  of  curiosity 
was  no  more  or  less  than  a  full  description 
of  Marrok  Pettrell,  the  pirate  captain,  and 
an  offer  of  a  large  reward  for  his  apprehen- 
sion. The  bulletin  also  stated  that  three 
others  of  the  pirates  had  probably  escaped, 
one  of  them  a  young  man— and  rewards 
were  offered  for  them,  too. 

"  Shouldn't  think  there'd  be  much  trouble 
in  making  out  that  captain,"'  remarked  one 
of  the  lookers-on.  "Zounds!  whataau^ly- 
looking  customer  he  must  be." 

"  I  should  know  him  the  moment  J  put 
my  eyes  on  him,"  said  a  second. 

"  Then   there's  t'olhers,"   added  a  third^ 
"  specially  the  young  'un.     'Gad,  I'd  like 
make  a  haul  on  some  on  'em." 

Alfred  felt  his  heart  sinking  within  hie 


pui 
[rdm 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


It  seemed  to  him  as  though  all  eyes  inut^t  ho, 
fixed  upon  him,  and  he  entertained  at  first 
the  idea  of  leaving  the  place  as  quickly  as 
possible;  but  he  soon  convinced  himself  that 
such  a  course  would  be  the  most  likely  to 
bring  suspicion  upon  him,  and  with  an  in- 
ward struggle  to  overcome  his  trepidation, 
he  walked  calmly  back  towards  the  placard, 
and  re-read  it. 

"  ILallo,"  exclaimed  a  tammy-worker, 
who  happened  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  our 
hero;  "  you  be  a  sea-goin'  chap  ?  " 

•'  Yes,"    returned   Alfred,    standing    the 


Alfred  came  nigh  losing  himself  as  this 
remark  was  made;  but  he  saw  that  all  eyes 
were  upon  him,  and  with  a  strong  effort  he 
maintained  his  composure. 

"  I  shouldn't  be  very  likely  to  be  here  if  I 
were  a  pirate,"  said  the  youth,  with  a  slight 
smile. 

"  Xo,  in  course  not.  But  I  hope  as  them 
fellers  '11  be  ketched — an'  I  hope  as  they'll 
be  hung — an'  I  hope  as  I  may  be  there  to 
see. 'em." 

As  the  tammy-maker  delivered  himself  of 
these  hopes,  he  turned  away  to  seek  his 


r:<i...i' 


ALFRED  READIXa  THE  OFFER  OF  REWARD    FOR    HIS   APPREHENSION, 


simultaneous  gaze  of  the  crowd  with  un- 
wonted fortitude. 

"  You  ben't  seen  nothin'  o'  these  pirates, 
I  s'pose  ?  " 

"No,  not  I;  and  I  pray  that  I  never 
may." 

The  last  part  of  this  remark  was  made 
wi:h  a  soul-fervor  that  might  have  disarmed 
Kuspicion  had  it  ever  existed. 

"One  o'  them  was  a  young  'un,"  re- 
marked the  tammy-maker;  "  but  in  course 
it  couldn't  'a'  been  you  ?  '" 


place  of  business,  and  the  rest  of  the  peo- 
ple, one  by  one,  gradually  went  their  way. 

Many  a  man  loses  a  fortune  by  reaching 
too  far  for  it,  and  many  a  one,  too,  fails  to 
discover  that  of  which  he  is  in  search,  from 
the  fact  that  the  object  is  directly  beneath 
his  nose  all  the  while.  So  it  was  wilh  the 
people  at  the  tavern.  Had  they  found  Al- 
fred in  the  woods  he  would  have  been  rec- 
ognized as  a  pirate  at  once ;  but  as  it  was, 
he  was  overlooked. 

Our  hero,  however,  could  not   feel  easr 


62 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN:   OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


until  he  had  got  clear  o^  the  place;  so  as 
Boon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  breakfast  he 
set  off.  The  road  from  Barnstaple  to  Comb 
Martin  led  directly  north,  and  the  distance 
was  only  eight  miles;  but  Alfred  chose  to 
take  a  path  directly  to  the  Devon  Head, 
which  would  be  a  distance  of  some  sixteen 
miles.  Part  of  the  way  was  well  traveled 
by  footmen,  and  the  whole  way  was  easy. 
At  length  he  crossed  the  small  road  that  ran 
from  Comb  Martin  to  Parlock,  and  entered 
the  oak  woods  beneath  the  shade  of  which 
he  had  so  often  gamboled  when  a  boy,  and 
ere  long  afterwards  the  little  stone  house 
and  the  beacon  were  in  sight. 

Near  at  hand  were  the  three  graves  of  the 
women  who  had  been  buried  by  the  old 
light-keeper — and  another  had  been  added 
to  the  number.  Its  stone  bore  the  name  of 
"Nepsey."  Alfred  gazed  in  silence  upon 
the  gi-ave,  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  cold  sod, 
and  then  hurried  on;  but  his  heart  was 
heavier,  and  a  saddening  misgiving  had 
crept  to  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  NIGHT  OF  LIFE. 


"With  trembling  steps  Alfred  Harrold  ap- 
proached the  home  of  his  happy,  joyous 
youth.  At  the  door  he  stood  for  a  moment 
irresolute,  and  then  he  knocked.  It  was  a 
man  who  answered  his  call,  but  the  man 
was  a  stranger.  The  youth  hardly  dared  to 
ask  his  questions,  but  finally  the  name  of 
the  old  light-keeper  trembled  upon  his  lips. 

"  So  you're  after  Luke  Garron,  are  ye  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Poor  Luke  I — he  ain't  hei-e.  But  walk 
in." 

The  man  returned  to  the  keeping-room  as 
he  spoke,  and  with  a  tottering  step  Alfred 
followed  him. 

"Luke  is  not  dead?"  fell  in  a  strained 
whisper  from  the  youth's  lips. 

"Not  as  I  knows  on;  but  he  hain't  been 
here  for  over  a  year." 

As  the  man  answered,  he  looked  inquisi- 
tively at  his  visitor,  and  gradually  a  beam  of 
intelligence  broke  over  his  face." 


"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  are  the  boy 
that  lived  with  him  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  a  father  to  me.  He  saved 
me  from  the  storm  when  I  was  a  little  child, 
and  he" 

Alfred  could  go  no  further,  for  the  thick- 
coming  emotions  choked  him,  and  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  The  man  gazed  sympa- 
thetically upon  him,  and  he,  too,  was  some- 
what affected. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I  heard  all  about 
it.  Poor  old  Luke  I  He  suffered  a  good 
deal  after  jou  had  been  taken  from  him." 

"  There  was  a  girl  with  him — a  beautiful 
young  creature,  whom  he  saved— or  whom  I 
saved — from  the  wreck  of  the  '  Chesham.'  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  the  trouble,"  returned  the 
man.  "Luke  seemed  to  love  that  girl  just 
as  though  she  was  his  own  flesh  and  blood, 
and  when  they  come  and  took  her  away,  it 
almost  killed  him.  Nepsey  had  died  before 
that,  and  he  was  left  all  alone." 

"Took  her  away!"  repeated  Alfred. 
"Who  did  it?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  her  own  father.  You  see  he 
found  out  that  Luke  had  found  the  girl,  and 
when  he  came  down  here  he  knew  her,  so 
he  took  her  away  with  him." 

"  Did  you  know  the  man  ?  " 

"  No.  Luke  did  not  tell  me  who  he 
was." 

"  And  it  might  not  have  been  her  father, 
after  all." 

"Oh,  yes  it  was,  for  Luke  told  me  there 
was  no  mistake  about  it." 

"  And  you  know  not  where  she  has 
gone?" 

"No." 

"  But  Luke — you  can  tell  me  something 
of  him?" 

"  I  can't  tell  j-ou  where  he  is.  All  I  know 
is,  that  he  went  away  from  here,  and  I  was 
put  in  his  place.  Poor  old  man!  He 
couldn't  stay  here  after  his  storm  daughter 
was  gone.  He  alwa3S  used  to  call  her  his 
'storm  daughter.'  After  you  was  gone  it 
was  bad  enough;  but  after  they  came  and, 
took  Ella  away  from  him,  he  wasn't  fit  for 
business  any  more.  He  used  to  let  the 
lamps  go  out  dairk  nights,  and  then  some- 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


53 


times  when  there  was  a  storm,  he'd  go  and 
set  out  on  the  head  of  the  bluff,  and  not 
light  up  the  beacon  at  all.  You  see  they 
couldn't  have  matters  go  on  so,  and  they 
had  to  turn  him  off.  I  took  his  place,  but  it 
made  my  heart  ache  when  I  saw  poor  old 
Luke  Garron  go  out  from  these  doors.  He 
was  all  broken  down;  that  handsome  form 
of  his  was  bent,  and  his  eye  was  dim;  his 
hair  was  turned  gray,  and  his  brow  was  all 
iurrowed  and  wrinkled.  Poor  Luke!  " 
.  Alfred  bowed  his  head  and  wept  like  a 
child.  His  highest  hopes  of  joy  were 
t.TU!>hed,  and  where  he  had  looked  for  the 
returning  sunshine  of  life,  all  was  dark. 
He  thought  to  see  the  dawning  of  day,  but 
in  the  stead  thereof  he  found  it  still  night. 

'*  Can  you  not  tell  me  anything  of  Luke  ?  " 
he  asked,  as  he  raised  his  head  once  more. 

'*  Nothing  since  he  went  away  from  here," 
returned  the  light-keeper.  "  I  haven't  seen 
anything  of  him.  nor  heard  anything." 

It  was  a  long  time  before  Alfred  spoke 
again,  but  he  was  at  length  aroused  by  the 
en -ranee  of  ihe  light-keeper's  wife.  Din- 
aer  was  prepared  and  the  youth  sat  down  to 
the  same  table  from  which  he  had  eaten  in 
childhood;  but  he  could  not  eat  much  now. 
AVhen  the  meal  was  finished,  the  light-keep- 
er went  up  into  the  beacon  to  trim  his 
lamps,  and  Alfred  walked  out  upon  the 
bluff. 

Every  spot,  every  rock,  every  twig,  bore 
to  the  mind  of  the  youth  the  memory  of 
some  happy  scene.  Here  he  had  sat  upon 
Luke's  knee,  and  listened  to  that  good  man's 
counsels,  and  there  he  had  played  with  the 
bright-eyed  Ella.  Then  he  was  a  playful, 
happy  boy — now  he  had  grown  to  be  a  man, 
and  happiness  had  long  been  a  stranger  to 
his  bosom.  He  went  out  upon  the  bluff, 
and  looked  off  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
channel.  Below  him  was  the  little  sandy 
cove,  shut  in  by  its  guardian  rocks,  and 
there  lay  the  very  boat  he  had  helped  Luke 
so  often  to  manage.  He  turned  to  the  nar- 
row path  and  descended  to  the  place.  He 
entered  the  boat  and  sat  down  upon  one  of 
the  thwarts,  and  then  he  buried  his  face  in 
liii-' hands.     r.>r   nearly  half  an  hour  he  sat 


there  in  one  position,  his  mind  busy  in  re- 
calling the  varied  scenes  of  the  past.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  a  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  on  starting  to  his  feet  he  beheld  the 
scarred  and  storm-beaten  features  of  Mar- 
rok  Pettrell. 

"  Eh  I  By  the  beard  of  Moses,  but  this  is 
a  lucky  hit.  Blow  me  eternally  if  I  thought 
of  seeing  you  here." 

Alfred  Harrold  was  thunder-struck.  He 
gazed  upon  the  pirate  captain  for  some  mo- 
ments without  the  ability  to  speak. 

"  Lucky,  by  the  powers!  "  said  Pettrell. 
"  But  let's  be  off  out  of  this.  We'll  work 
together  now,  and  haul  our  wind  quickly. 
Cut  those  gaskets,  Alfred,  and  then  give  me 
a  lift  at  the  halyards.  I'll  cut  the  shore- 
fasts.  Hurry,  hurry,  for  the  bloodhounds 
are  after  us.  By  my  eternal  soul,  if  we  can 
get  out  of  this  lugger,  we  may  laugh  at 
them." 

"  You  may  go  your  own  way,  Marrok 
Pettrell,  but  I  shall  keep  your  company  no 
longer." 

"Nonsense!  I  tell  you  the  officers  are 
almost  here!  They  gave  me  chase  on  the 
road,  and  I  took  to  the  woods;  but  they 
found  my  wake.  Come,  bear  a  hand,  and 
let's  be  out  of  this." 

"  You  can  go,  but  I  shall  not  go  with 
you." 

"  Fool!  dolt!  Would  you  be  taken  by  the 
hounds?" 

"I  am  no  pirate." 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  may  tell  them  that 
story,  but  they  won't  believe  you." 

"  You  know,  Marrok,  that  I  am  not." 

"  No,  1  don't  know  any  such  thing." 

"  Good  God!  you  wouldn't  sec  me  taken." 

"Oh,  shut  up  your  nonsense!"  hastily 
exclaimed  Pettrell,  as  he  drew  a  knife  across 
the  gasket  of  the  sail.  "  We've  sailed  to- 
gether too  long  to  part  company  now.  If  I 
am  taken,  you'll  be  taken  with  me;  and  what 
is  more,  if  I'm  hanged,  you'll  be  hanged  with 
me.  Now  you'd  better  start  up  and  help  me 
off." 

The  youth  for  a  moment  was  astounded  by 
the  cool  villany  of  the  pirate,  but  he  soon 
rcirained  his  firmness  and  decision. 


54        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


"  Go  j'our  own  way,  Pettrell,"  he  said; 
"  but  think  not  that  I  shall  go  with  you.  I 
have  little  choice  between  your  company  and 
that  of  the  oflScers." 

"  Fool!  " 

"  Ahl  "  uttered  Alfred  at  that  moment, 
thinking  of  the  package  he  had  lost,  "  you 
robbed  me  of  papers  ihat  I  had." 

"  Papers  ?  What  papers  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  pirate  in  assumed  astonishment. 

"  You  took  them  from  my  bosom  while  I 
lay" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  papers.  Ha!  did 
Mark  Bronkon  give  you  papers  ?  "  cried  Pet- 
trell,  seizing  the  youth  by  the  arm.  "  Tell 
me! — tell  me  I  Did  he  give  you  any  pa- 
pers ?  " 

Alfred  now  believed  that  Pettrell  had  not 
taken  those  papers,  for  there  was  surely  no 
deception  in  his  earnest,  anxious  manner; 
but  before  he  could  reply,  the  pirate  dropped 
his  arm  and  sprang  to  the  shore-fast. 

"  They  are  upon  us!  "  he  cried.  "  Out 
with  that  boat-hook!  Out  with  it — quick! 
For  mercy-sake,  Alfred,  help  me  to  escape! '' 

The  shore-fasts  were  cut,  and  Alfred  at- 
tempted to  leap  to  the  shore,  but  Pettrell 
seized  hold  of  him  and  held  him  back. 

"  By  heavens,  you  shall  not  leave  me! 
You  must  help  me  now.  Hear  them  ? 
They  are  at  the  house  and  will  soon  be  here! 
Seize  those  halyards!  " 

"  Marrok  Pettrell,"  exclaimed  the  youth, 
shaking  ofE  the  hold  that  was  laid  upon  him, 
"  I  have  said  that  I  will  no  longer  be  your 
companion.  I  mean  that,  and  by  that  will  I 
abide." 

"'  Back!  Move  a  step  towards  the  shore, 
and  you  shall  die!  " 

As  the  pirate  spoke,  he  seized  the  boat- 
hook  and  attempted  to  push  off;  but  his  ef- 
forts were  in  vain,  for  the  boat's  keel  was 
bedded  in  the  sand.  lie  turned  to  seek  the 
assistance  of  the  youth,  and  at  that  moment 
half-a-dozen  men  appeared  upon  the  head  of 
the  bluff. 

"  O  fool!  Infernal,  dastard  fool! — we  are 
lost!  "cried  Pettrell,  as  he  gave  one  more 
desperate  push  with  the  boat-hook. 

He  pushed  in  vain,  and  in  a  moment  more 


the  officers  leaped  on  board  the  boat.  The 
stout  pirate  made  a  strong  resistance,  but  he 
was  soon  overpowered  by  numbei-s,  and  his 
arms  pinioned  behind  him. 

"  Now  whom  have  we  here  ?  "  asked  the 
leader  of  the  officers,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon 
our  hero. 

"  That  is  one  of  them,"  said  an  officer. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  leader. 

"I  am  no  pirate,  sir — God  knows  I  am 
not!  "  uttered  Alfred. 

"  Then  God  must  have  a  curious  way  of 
knowing  things,"  said  Pettrell,  with  a  de- 
moniac look. 

"There  was  a  young  one  among  them," 
said  one  of  the  officers,  "  and  it's  likely  that 
this  ere  is  him." 

"  Didn't  j-ou  belong  on  board  the  brig 
that  was  wrecked  on  the  Cornwall  coast  ?  " 
asked  the  leader. 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  groaned  Alfred;  "  but  I  , 
was" 

"  Oh,  never  mind  your  buts,"  interrupted 
the  officer.  "  I  expect  to  hear  this  chop- 
faced  villain  swear  that  he  ain't  a  pirate 
next." 

"  He's  the  one;  but  he  is  a  little  fright- 
ened," said  another  of  the  officers. 

Alfred  offered  no  resistance,  for  he  knew 
that  it  would  be  useless;  neither  could 
he  say  any  more,  for  he  was  only  met  with 
coarse  taunts,  and  with  a  painfully  swelling 
heart  he  was  led  up  from  the  cove. 

*'  The  light-keeper  came  out,  and  saw  the 
prisoners  led  by  the  house.  Alfred  could  see 
the  wonder  that  rested  upon  his  counte- 
nance, but  he  had  no  word  to  say.  It  was  a 
crushing  blow,  and  he  sank  beneath  it. 
Silently  he  walked  along  through  the  woody 
path,  and  at  the  road  he  found  horses.  Up- 
on the  back  of  one  he  was  secured,  while 
Pettrell  was  in  like  manner  secured  upon  an- 
other. The  officers  then  mounted,  and  ihe 
party  set  off  towards  Exeter,  which  place  was 
reached  late  in  the  evening. 

Here  Alfred  and  Pettrell  were  lodged  in 
the  jail,  but  in  different  cells,  and  at  the  end 
of  a  month  they  were  forwarded  to  London, 
to  answer  to  the  charge  of  piracy. 

When  our  hero  reached  the  great  metrop- 


THE  STORM    CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL.         5^ 


olis,  he  was  sick  at  heart,  and  all  worn  dovvn 
with  grief  and  misery.  All  along  upon  the 
road  he  had  been  gazed  at  as  a  felon  of  the 
blackest  dye,  and  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion had  been  forcibly  assaulted  by  the  mob. 

At  length  the  prison  doors  were  shut  upon 
him  at  London,  and  he  knew  that  when  he 
came  forth  it  would  be  to  his  final  trial.  He 
knew  of  no  means  to  secure  a  witness  in  his 
behalf,  unless,  indeed,  he  might  gain  some- 
thing from  the  influence  of  Sir  William 
Brent.  He  remembered,  too,  his  address. 
He  received  permission  to  write  a  note  to 
the  old  admiral,  and  he  did  so,  and  sent  it 
off.  He  waited  two  weeks,  but  he  heard 
nothing  from  his  letter.  Marrok  Pettrell 
had  sworn  to  claim  the  youth  as  a  pirate,  and 
there  seemed  no  earthly  way  for  redemption. 

The  most  fearful  ordeal  of  his  whole 
eventful  life  was  now  before  the  unfortunate 
youth.  He  feared  that  the  Court  of  the 
King's  Commissioner  would  condemn  him. 
But  one  ray  of  light  still  shone  in  upon  him: 
at  the  bar  of  God  he  knew  that  he  would  be 
innocent. 


CHAPTER  XVUI. 


TILE    TBIAL. 


The  day  of  trial  at  length  came,  and  Al- 
fred Harrold  was  taken  to  the  court  where 
he  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life.  The  ship 
which  had  been  robbed  in  the  Indian  Ocean 
had  arrived  in  port,  and  many  of  her  passen- 
gers were  there  as  witnesses. 

The  great  hall  was  crowded  with  specta- 
tors, and  the  utmost  interest  prevailed.  Al- 
fred met  the  eager  gaze  of  the  people  as  he 
entered  the  box,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  be 
seated,  he  bowed  his  head  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

By  previous  arrangement  Pettrell  and  the 
youth  were  tried  separately.  "With  the  pi- 
rate captain  the  case  was  a  short  and  direct 
one.  Ten  men  who  had  been  on  board  the 
Indiaman  knew  him  on  the  instant  they  saw 
him,  and  their  testimony  was  direct  and  con- 
clusive. He  was  found  guilty  of  piracy,  and 
ihe  judge  asked  him  if  he  had  any  reason  to 


give  why  the  sentence  should  not  be  pro- 
nounced upon  him.  Pettrell  arose  to  his 
feet,  and  cast  a  defiant  look  around  upon 
those  v/ho  had  collected  there  to  look  upon 
him. 

"  Yes,  your  honor,"  he  said,  with  a  cool 
look  and  tone,  "  I  suppose  my  case  is  a  fixed 
one,  and  the  idea  of  asking  a  man  his  rea- 
sons for  not  being  hanged,  when  you  have 
determined  to  hang  him  at  all  events,  is  a 
novel  idea.  However,  my  time  has  come. 
You  want  my  life.  Take  it.  I  suppose  my 
companion  here  will  follow  in  the  same 
track.  He  hasn't  been  quite  so  long  an  out- 
law as  I  have,  but  that  is  his  lookout.  I 
could  almost  wish  that  he  hadn't  been 
caught,  for  he  is  too  young  to  hang.  If  he 
should  live  he  might  repent;  but  then  your 
laws  don't  look  at  such  things.  We  both 
must  die.  No,  sir,  I  have  no  reason  why  I 
should  not  be  hanged.  I  have  played  the 
game  and  beat  it  often;  now  I'm  beat.  If 
I  have  any  complaint  to  make,  it  is  that  you 
should  put  us  on  separate  indictments.  Al- 
fred and  myself  have  been  together,  and  the 
same  testimony  that  applies  to  me  will  ap- 
ply to  him.    He  is  my  son, 'tis  true,  but" 

"  Liarl  "  uttered  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

The  judge  commanded  order. 

"  Excuse  me,  your  honor;  but  that  base 
wretch's  words  are  having  weight  against 
one  who  is  yet  to  be  tried.  He  has  lied  most 
foully." 

All  eyes  were  turned  in  the  direction  from 
whence  the  voice  proceeded,  and  Sir  Will- 
iam Brent,  the  admiral  of  a  hundred  battles, 
was  seen  making  his  way  towards  the  bench. 

"  Your  honorl  "  he  exclaimed,  his  white 
locks  shaking  with  the  indignation  that 
moved  him,  "  I  know  that  youth,  and  I 
knew  his  father.  Let  the  dastard  villain 
speak  no  more." 

Marrok  Pettrell  trembled  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  stamped  his  foot  with  rage.  He 
was  paralyzed  for  awhile,  but  his  reckless 
daring  came  back  to  him. 

"  Let  me  tell  the  admiral  that  he  is  too 
late  to  triumph!  "  hissed  the  pirate,  with  a 
fiendish  look.  "  He  and  I  looked  on  and 
saw  a  man  hanged  years  ago.     If  this  young 


56  THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


pirate  by  my  side  is  not  my  son,  much  good 
it  may  do  when  he  finds  out  in  reality  who 
was  his  father.  I  am  now  ready  for  your 
hangman!  " 

A  ray  of  hope  had  shot  through  our  hero's 
soul  when  he  heard  the  old  baronet,  but  a 
strange  source  of  new  grief  was  opened  to 
him  by  the  last  words  of  Pettrell.  He  had 
heard  Bronkon  speak  of  his  father  being 
buried  at  sea,  and  he  remembered  Bronkon's 
manner  when  the  subject  was  broached. 
The  thought  came  like  a  thunderbolt  upon 
him  that  his  father  had  been  hanged  I  And 
then  came  the  thought  of  the  papers  he  had 
lost. 

Sir  William  conversed  a  moment  with  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  and  then  he  whispered 
with  the  judge ;  and  soon  afterward  sentence 
of  death  was  passed  upon  the  pirate  captain, 
and  then  the  officers  were  ordered  to  remove 
him  from  the  room.  Pettrell  objected  to 
this;  but  his  objection  was  of  no  avail,  and 
with  a  volley  of  oaths  upon  his  lips  he  was 
led  from  the  place. 

It  was  now  Alfred's  turn  to  be  called  up. 
The  appearance  of  Sir  William  had  given 
him  a  glimmer  of  hope;  but  yet  the  evidence 
of  the  ship's  passengers  was  somewhat 
against  him,  until  one  was  called  who  had 
seen  the  pirate  captain  knock  him  down. 
Four  of  the  passengers  were  confident  they 
had  recognized  the  youth  upon  the  quarter- 
deck of  the  pirate  brig,  but  they  all  agreed 
that  he  did  not  board  the  ship.  The  fifth 
witness  stated  that  he  saw  Pettrell  knock 
the  prisoner  down  just  as  the  brig  began  to 
round  to. 

After  evidence  for  prosecution  was  all  in, 
Alfred  Harrold  wa^s  requested  to  make  any 
statement  he  chose  bearing  upon  the  ques- 
tion at  issue. 

"  Nearly  the  whole  of  my  life,  sir,  bears 
upon  the  terrible  subject,"  tremblingly  ut- 
tered the  youth  as  lie  arose  to  his  feet. 

*'  Go  on,  the  court  will  listen." 

The  youthful  prisoner  bowed  his  head  for 
»  moment,  and  then  wiping  the  tears  from 
his  eyes,  he  cast  a  quick  glance  about  him. 
He  met  the  gaze  of  hundreds,  but  he  saw 
that  every  countenance  bore  that  magic  beam 


of  sympathy  which  is  not  to  be  mistaken; 
that  beam  which  puts  a  brilliant  spark  in  the 
eye,  and  a  tender  softness  about  the  lips, 
which  fastens  the  gaze  with  a  kind  look,  and 
images  hope  in  its  expression.  Quick  as  the 
passage  of  the  lightning  bolt  went  the  con- 
viction to  the  heart  of  our  hero  that  the 
sympathy  of  the  people  was  with  him. 
This  gave  him  courage,  and  with  consider- 
able firmness  he  commenced  the  story  of 
his  eventful  life. 

Alfred's  voice  trembled  with  emotion  as 
he  commenced;  but  gradually,  he  lost  the 
realities  of  the  present  in  the  memories  he 
was  calling  up.  His  tone  assumed  power,  and 
the  pathos  of  his  words  was  deep  and  touch- 
ing. With  a  modest,  unwitting  force,  he 
painted  the  scenes  of  his  early  boyhood; 
he  told  how  he  had  been  saved  from  the 
wreck  by  the  old  light-keeper,  and  how  he 
had  lived  with  that  good  man,  how  he  had 
learned,  how  he  had  loved,  how  his  heart 
had  put  forth  its  tender  shoots  of  hope,  and 
how  his  life  was  opening  in  the  summer  of 
peace  and  joy.  Then  he  told  of  tlie  coming 
of  the  dark  man  who  had  just  been  taken 
from  the  court-room  under  the  sentence  of 
death. 

For  a  moment  the  poor  youth's  feelings 
overpowered  him,  and  he  bowed  his  head  on 
the  railing  before  him.  When  he  spoke 
again,  his  voice  had  settled  to  a  low,  pain- 
ful cadence,  and  his  frame  trembled  beneath 
the  bitter  memories  he  called  up.  With  liv- 
ing, speaking  colors  he  painted  the  night  of 
storm  and  darkness  that  shut  so  fearfully 
about  him  when  he  was  dragged  away  from 
his  kind  protector,  and  as  he  went  on  with 
his  recital  every  eye  that  beamed  upon  him 
was  moistened  with  the  warm  dew  of  gen- 
erous sympathy.  He  told  of  his  dark  sor- 
rows, and  his  soul's  battle  against  the  evil  gen- 
ius that  had  settled  down  so  menacingly  by  his 
side.  He  told  of  his  escape  from  the  brig  in 
Cumberland,  of  his  meeting  with  Sir  Will- 
iam Brent,  and  of  his  subsequent  re-capLure. 

And  so  he  went  on,  giving  a  faithful  pic- 
ture of  his  career  up  to  the  time  of  the  wreck 
upon  the  coast  of  Cornwall.  His  tears 
flowed  afresh  as  he  told  of  tfte  bitter  disap- 


THE  STOKM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


57 


poiniment  he  had  experienced  vvhen  he 
had  reached  once  more  the  home  of  his  boy- 
hood, and  how,  at  that  moment,  his  life's 
hopes  were  again  cruslied.  Then  he  told 
li<)w  the  pirate  captain  had  again  met  him, 
and  how  once  more  his  fate  seemed  linked 
with  that  of  the  dreaded  man  who  had  been 
lii<  deadly  enemy  so  long.  There  was  a 
,   nioijient's  pause,  and  then  Alfred  raised  his 

V.     clasped  hands  towards  heaven,  and  while  his 

!  countenance  beamed  with  a  holy  radiance,  he 
exclaimed: — 

"  Earth  can  have  few  joys  left  for  me 
now;  but,  oh,  I  would   not  have  my  name 

■^  left  upon  her  history  linked  with  a  crime  so 
'black.  God  knows  my  heart;  to  him  I  can 
look  as  a  child  may  look  up  to  a  father.  He 
will  have  mercy  on  the  unfortunate,  and 
soothe  the  troubles  of  those  who  rest  upon 
his  arm.  To  my  God  I  am  not  afraid  to 
commit  myself;  to  my  fellows,  and  to  you, 
sir,  I  look  for  pity,  at  least;  pity  for  one  who 
has  been  most  bitterly  wronged,  and  whose 
heart  is  all  crushed  and  broken. 

Some  minutes  elapsed  after  the  youth  had 
^unk  into  his  seat,  before  a  whisper  broke 

.  the  stillness  that  reigned  in  that  room. 
When  it  was  broken,  it  was  by  a  low,  simul- 
taneous heaving  of  a  hundred  bosoms  that 
sent  forth  the  pent-up  emotions  of  unmis- 
takable good-will  and  sympathy. 
Sir  William  Brent  arose  at  the  call  of  the 

\     clerk,  and  gave  his  testimony. 

[  "  Sir  William/'  said  the  judge,  after  the 
old  admiral  had  related  the  circumstances  of 
his  meeting  with  the  youth  in  Cumberland, 
•'you  know  something,  I  think,  of  the  pris- 
'  ner's  early  life  ?  " 

•'  Nothing  that  I  may  tell  here,  my  lord," 
returned  the  old  man.  ''  It  can  have  no 
bearing  upon  the  prisoner's  case." 

In  a  short  time  the  case  was  given  to  the 
jury,  .and  after  a  deliberation  of  some  min- 
utes they  returned  with  a  verdict  of  "  Not 
guilty." 

The  feelings  of  the  excited  multitude  were 
not  to  be  restrained,  and  they  burst  forth  in 
a  prolonged  shout  of  applause,  in  the  midst 

\     of  which  Alfred  sank  back  completely  over- 

,      powered.     He  heard  the  shout, and  he  knew 


that  he  was  safe,  and  then  his  consciousness 
left  him.  When  he  was  aroused,  his  hand 
was  clasped  by  a  warm  embrace,  and  a 
friendly  voice  was  speaking  to  him. 

''Come,  come,  my  brave  youth;  you  are 
free!" 

It  was  Sir  William  who  spoke  to  him,  and 
as  our  hero  caught  the  kind  look  of  the  old 
man's  eye,  he  bent  forward  and  leaned  his 
head  upon  the  baronet's  bosom. 
"  Come,  come;  you  are  freel " 
"  But  whither — whither  shall  I  go  ?  " 
"  With  me,"  returned  the  baronet,  as  he 
led  the  youth  from  the  box.     "Come;  my 
carriage  is  in  the  street." 

Alfred  followed  the  old  man  out,  and  as 
he  walked  down  the  aisle  he  met  the  warm 
greetings  of  those  who  had  remained  to  see 
him  depart.  He  thanked  them  with  a  silent, 
tearful  look  of  gratitude,  and  ere  long  he 
reached  the  admiral's  carriage.  Once  more 
he  turned  his  grateful  look  upon  the  multi- 
tude who  were  cheering  him,  and  then  he 
entered  the  vehicle  of  his  friend.  He  knew 
not  why  the  old  man  should  be  so  interested 
in  him;  but  of  one  thing  he  felt  assured— 
that  Sir  William  was  his  friend,  and  that  for 
the  present  he  was  safe  from  persecution. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A   STRANGE  SURPRISE. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  Alfred  reached 
the  residence  of  Sir  William  in  Hanover 
Street.  He  ascended  the  steps  and  followed 
the  admiral  into  the  hall,  where  he  waited 
till  one  of  the  servants  had  called  the  secre- 
tary. 

''Mr.  Mclvar,''  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  I  wish  you  to  take  this  young  gentleman 
with  you  to  Walbourne's  and  there  see  that 
he  has  clothing  suitable  for  a  guest  of  mine. 
He  is  the  one  of  whom  I  have  often 
spoken.     You  know  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  secretary,  as  he  cast 
a  kind  look  upon  the  youth. 

Our  hero  could  not  object  to  this  arrange- 
ment, and  with  a  word  of  thanks  upon  his 
lips,  he  followed   Mclvar  back  to  the  car- 


66        THE  STORM  CHILDREN:  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


riage,  and  they  proceeded  at  once  to  Wal- 
bourne's.  The  fashionable  tailor  had  any 
quantity  of  superb  clothing  on  hand  which 
had  never  been  called  for  by  those  who  had 
ordered  it,  and  without  difficulty  Alfred  was 
fitted  with  a  suit.  As  he  surveyed  his  coun- 
terfeit in  a  mirror,  he  could  not  but  feel  a 
thrill  of  new  pleasure;  for,  say  what  we 
will,  outward  appearance  is  not  to  be  over- 
looked in  this  world  of  ours.  Dress  may 
not  "  make  the  man;  "  but  dress  does  make 
the  man  of  fine  feelings  more  agreeable  to 
himself,  and  more  pleasing  to  others.  La- 
bor has  her  garb  of  "stout  contents,"  and 
labor  is  honorable  in  that  garb;  but  the 
hand  that  sweats  in  the  dust  of  toil  should 
not  go  unwashed  to  the  tea-table.  Neatness 
and  comeliness  have  their  laws,  and  to  a 
certain  extent  even   fashion  may  be    just. 

"When  Alfred  returned  to  the  dwelling  of 
Sir  William,  he  was  shown  into  a  large 
drawing-room,  where  he  was  told  that  the 
admiral  would  soon  join  him.  For  a  little 
time  the  youth  was  completely  dazzled  by 
the  gorgeousness  of  things  about  him.  The 
large  shaded  lamps  sent  a  soft  light  around 
upon  the  rich  carpets,  and  the  heavy,  carved 
furniture,  and  the  old  pictures  that  looked 
forth  from  their  gilded  frames  seemed  like 
tiny  spots  of  nature  in  the  distance,  seen 
through  golden  windows. 

A  portrait  that  hung  against  the  wall 
opposite  to  the  door,  had  just  attracted  the 
youth's  attention,  and  he  was  so  deeply 
buried  in  the  contemplation  of  the  beautiful 
features  which  were  there  revealed,  that 
he  did  not  notice  the  opening  of  the  door, 
nor  the  sound  of  a  light  footfall  that  ap- 
proached him;  nor  was  he  aroused  till  he 
felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  heard  a 
low,  sweet  voice  pronounce  his  name. 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and,  as  he  turned, 
his  eyes  rested  upon  a  face  of  more  than 
ideal  beauty  and  loveliness.  The  lips  upon 
which  he  gazed  were  half  parted,  and  a  gen- 
tle smile  was  breaking  about  them. 

"  EUal  "  he  whispered,  half  fearful  that 
his  dream  was  false.     "  Ellal  " 

"  Your  own  little  storm  child,"  returned 
the  fair  girl. 


Both  her  hands  were  extended  as  she 
spoke,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  beam- 
ing look  upon  the  face  of  the  youth.  He 
thought  not  then  of  the  maiden  who  stood 
before  him  with  the  first  dawn  of  blushing 
womanhood  upon  her  cheeks;  he  only 
thought  of  the  little  child  he  had  wrested 
from  the  storm  grasp,  of  the  gentle  being 
who  had  been  his  companion  in  the  flowery 
walks  of  boyhood,  and  of  her  who  had  been 
the  love  light  of  many  a  dark  hour  of  tem- 
pest and  tribulation.  With  these  thoughts, 
these  feelings,  he  drew  the  beautiful  Ella 
to  his  bosom,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  her 
fair  cheek. 

"  And  you,  too,  here,"  he  murmured,  as* 
he  again  gazed  into  Ella's  face.  "  Has  Sir 
William  been  kind  to  us  both  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Alfred,  I  have  found  a  father  in 
Sir  William." 

"Fatherl"  uttered  the  youth,  dropping 
the  hands  he  held,  while  a  sudden  shade  of 
something  like  fear  passed  over  his  featiwes. 

"  Yes,  and  a  good,  generous  father  he  is," 
said  Ella,  with  a  happy  look. 

"  Thank  God  for  the  blessing  he  has  con- 
ferred upon  youl "  ejaculated  the  youth,  t*o 
he  sank  back  into  his  seat. 

The  beautiful  girl  sat  down  by  his  side,  all 
unconscious  of  the  sudden  pang  that  found 
its  way  to  Alfred's  heart.  She  knew  not 
that  in  her  present  sphere  her  companion 
felt  that  she  was  removed  from  him  forever. 

But  so  it  was.  He  had  held  the  sweet 
companion  of  his  boyhood  in  his  soul's 
memory  for  years,  and  he  had  learned  to 
look  upon  that  image  as  the  type  of  one 
who  belonged  to  him  in  love  and  sympathy. 
But  the  scene  was  changed.  The  child  he 
had  taken  to  his  young  bosom  from  the 
grasp  of  death,  was  no  longer  a  traveler  in 
the  same  path  with  himself,  and  he  felt  that 
henceforth  she  could  only  be  his  companion 
in  the  memory  of  days  that  had  passed. 
But  the  youth  hushed  the  feelings  that  were 
rising  in  his  bosom,  and  once  more  he  turned 
with  a  smile  to  the  fair  being  at  his   side. 

"Ella,"  he  asked,  "have  you  seen  any- 
thing of  our  old  protector  since  you  left  the 
beacon  house  ?  " 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;   OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE   CHANNEL. 


5» 


"  Once  I  thought  I  saw  him,"  returned 
the  girl,  while  an  expression  of  sadness 
overshadowed  her  features.  "  I  stood  by 
the  window  and  saw  an  old  man  upon  the 
opposite  side  of  the  square.  It  looked  like 
old  Luke,  and  I  ran  out  to  meet  him,  but 
when  I  had  gained  the  street  he  was  gone. 
I  have  seen  nothing  of  him  since,  nor  have 
I  heard  anything  of  him.'' 

At  this  moment  Sir  William  entered  the 
apartment,  and  Alfred  quickly  arose  to  meet 
him. 

"  Ah,  you  look  like  another  man,  upon 
my  soul,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  as  he  took 
our  hero's  hand.  "  What  do  you  think  of 
the  surprise  you  have  met  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  heavenly  surprise,  sir,"  re- 
turned Alfred. 

"■  1  thought  so.  My  pretty  Ella  must 
seem  a  very  sister  to  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  youth  in  a  low  tone, 
while  his  eyes  wandered  to  where  the  fair 
gill  sat. 

"I  knew  she  must;  and  it  seems,  too, 
that  you  were  the  one  who  saved  her." 

"  Yes.  I  took  her  from  the  cold  bosom 
of  one  who  clung  to  her  even  in  death.  I 
think  she  would  have  died  had  I  not  discov- 
ered her  as  I  did." 

"  And  God  knows  you  shall  ever  have  my 
warmest  gratitude — and  something  substan- 
tial, too.  But  has  Ella  told  you  the  story  of 
her  early  life  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"  Then  you  are  yet  in  the  dark.  But  I 
will  explain  the  matter.  Let's  see — it  is 
thirteen  years  ago  that  her  mother  died. 
How  time  flies  away.  I  then  had  command 
of  a  squadron  in  the  Indies.  My  wife  was 
taken  with  one  of  those  malignant  fevers, 
and  she  died  in  one  week  from  the  time  of 
her  first  sickness.  She  loft  my  Ella  not 
quite  four  years  of  age,  and  I  at  once  made 
up  my  mind  to  send  the  child  to  England. 
I  wrote  letters  to  ray  friends  in  London, 
with  whom  I  had  planned  that  Ella  should 
remain  till  I  came  home,  and  gave  them  into 
the  hands  of  the  captain  of  the  ship  in 
which  ray  child  was  to  sail.  The  child's 
nurse,  and  two  more  of  ray  female  servants. 


were  sent  to  take  charge  of  my  little  daugh- 
ter. Of  course  the  letters  never  reached 
their  destination,  and  when  the  old  light- 
keeper  sent  word  out  that  he  had  found  a 
child — as  I  understand  he  did — there  was  no 
one  in  England  who  mistrusted  that  my 
child  had  left  the  Indies. 

"  When  I  came  home,  which  was  nearly 
two  years  afterwards,  I  thought  my  child 
had  perished.  The  account  of  the  wreck  of 
the  "  Chesham "  reached  me  in  Calcutta, 
and  that  gave  out  that  every  soul  on  board 
the  ship  perished.  Not  a  thought  entered 
my  head  that  my  child  could  have  been 
saved,  and  I  gave  her  up  as  lost.  ,  Seven 
years  passed  away  after  my  return,  and  dur- 
ing that  time  I  divided  my  attention  between 
my  friends  in  London  and  my  estates  in 
Cumberland.  You  remember  our  meeting 
at  the  little  inn  near  Egreinont?  When 
you  told  me  your  story  then,  you  said  some- 
thing about  a  girl  who  had  been  saved.  My 
then  present  interest  in  other  matters  pre- 
vented me  from  noticing  the  circumstance; 
but  ere  long  after  I  set  out  on  the  road  j'our 
words  came  back  to  my  mind,  and  by  de- 
grees the  idea  of  my  own  child  became  as- 
sociated with  the  little  girl  of  whom  yon 
had  spoken. 

"  When  I  returned  to  London,  I  hastened 
off  to  Devonshire.  I  found  the  residence  of 
the  old  light-keeper — and  there  I  found  my 
daughter.  She  had  grown  to  be  a  large  girl,, 
but  I  knew  her  the  moment  I  saw  her.  She 
had  retained  her  Christian  name  —  Ella 
Deane — for  that  was  what  we  always  called 
her,  though  she  had  forgotten  the  name  of 
her  family.  The  facts  were  as  clear  as 
though  my  child  had  never  been  absent 
from  me  for  a  moment;  but  it  gave  me  a 
pang  to  take  her  away  from  that  old  man. 
He  wept  like  a  child,  and  I  thought  his 
heart  would  break.  I  asked  him  to  come 
and  live  with  me,  but  he  refused.  He  said 
he  had  nothing  on  earth  to  live  for,  and  I 
believe  he  spoke  the  truth.  It  was  a  heavy 
blow  for  him.    Ah,  Ella— does  it  affect  you 

80?'» 

"Excuse  me,  ray  dear  father,"  said  the 
fair  girl,  as  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her 


60        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


face.  "Alas,  poor  Luke!  I  cannot  think 
of  him  but  with  sorrow.  He  was  a  good 
man.  He  was  a  father  to  me  when  I  had 
none  else  to  protect  me,  and  I  shall  ever 
love  him!  Alas,  poor  Luke!  what  would  I 
not  give  to  see  him  ?  " 

"But  tell  me,  Sir  William,"  uttered  Al- 
fred, struggling  to  keep  back  his  tears,  "  do 
you  not  know  anything  of  that  old  man 
now  ?  " 

"  No.  He  left  the  light-house  shortly 
after  I  took  Ella  home,  and  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  him  since.  I  have  sent  to 
Devonshire  repeatedly,  but  could  gain  no 
clew  to  his  whereabouts." 

Gradually  the  conversation  took  another 
turn,  though  it  was  a  long  time  ere  Alfred 
could  draw  his  thoughts  from  the  unfortu- 
nate protector  of  his  boyhood.  At  length, 
however,  he  overcame  the  sadness  that  load- 
ed his  soul,  and  then  he  had  to  recount  the 
scenes  of  his  own  life.  He  had  an  interest- 
ed listener  in  Ella,  and  often  did  he  feel  the 
warm  blood  rushing  to  his  face  as  he  met 
the  earnest  expression  of  her  lustrous  eyes. 

It  was  late  when  Alfred  was  shown  to  his 
chamber,  and  when  he  was  once  more  alone, 
what  a  rushing  of  various  emotions  filled  his 
bosom.  Into  that  one  day  were  crowded 
the  prison — the  court— the  trial — the  host  of 
applauding  people — the  unexpected  protect- 
or— and  last,  the  meeting  with  Ella.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  it  was  long  ere  he  slept,  nor 
is  it  a  wonder  that  when  he  did  sleep  his 
dreams  were  various  and  wild.  If  he 
dreamed  of  Ella,  it  was  as  one  might  dream 
of  airy  castles  which  had  substance  only  in 
vain  wishes. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE     HEAST'S     secrets,   AND    ITS    TRIALS. 

On  the  very  next  morning  after  Alfred 
had  found  protection  beneath  the  roof  of 
Sir  William  Brent,  the  latter  received  orders 
to  go  to  Portsmouth  to  attend  a  court-mar- 
tial. The  call  was  an  urgent  one,  and  the 
old  admiial    h:id   io  ob(•^  ii.     His  secretary 


was  to  attend  him,  and  our  hero  was  to  be 
left  almost  alone  with  Ella. 

"  You  can  make  yourself  comfortable  till 
my  return,"  said  Sir  AVilliam,  speaking  to 
the  youth,  just  previous  to  his  departure. 
"There  is  my  library,  and  if  you  at  any 
time  wish  to  take  a  ride,  the  coachman  will 
obey  your  wishes.  I  shall  be  absent  two 
weeks,  at  least,  and  perhaps  three;  but  when 
I  return  I  will  attend  to  j^our  interests. 
However,  a  few  weeks  of  rest  will  not  harm 
3^ou.  And  you,  my  child,"  continued  the 
baronet,  turning  to  Ella,  "  will  of  course  do 
everything  in  your  power  to  make  Alfred 
comfortable.  You  owe  him  a  debt  of  deep 
gratitude,  and  you  must  not  forget  that  I 
owe  him  the  life  of  my  child." 

Sir  William  set  off,  and  the  storm  children 
were  once  more  left  to  enjoy  each  other's 
society.  For  a  week  there  was  a  mutual 
constraint.  They  conversed  and  read  to- 
gether, but  their  conversation  was  formal, 
and  the  reading  was  resorted  to  for  the  pur- 
pose of  relieving  the  tedium.  Both  those 
hearts  were  swelling  with  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings for  which  there  had  been  no  utterance, 
except  by  the  soft  language  of  those  tones 
and  glances  which  could  not  be  restrained. 
Alfred  told  over  and  over  again  the  tale  of 
his  trials  and  sufferings  upon  the  sea;  and 
often  were  the  scenes  of  those  days,  when 
both  were  children  under  the  care  of  the 
old  light-keeper,  reverted  to  and  talked 
about. 

During  the  second  week,  Alfred  opened 
his  heart  more  to  the  feelings  that  lay  so 
closely  about  it,  and  he  smiled  oftener,  and 
spoke  more  freely.  The  effect  was  not  lost 
upon  Ella,  for  her  very  joyous  looks  told 
how  happy  she  was,  and  how  much  she 
loved  the  society  of  him  who  had  thus  been 
left  to  bear  her  company. 

The  third  week  had  opened,  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam had  not  returned.  Alfred  and  Ella 
were  sitting  in  the  baronet's  library.  It  was 
evening,  and  they  had  been  conversing  upon 
topics  connected  with  their  childhood.  They 
were  seated  upon  the  same  soft  lounge,  and 
they  had  l>eeu  more  than  usually  thoughtful. 

••Oh."   uttered  Ella.    •' I  shall  never  tire 


THE  STORM    CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


in  lookiiifr  back  upon  those  sweet  scenes  of 
my  early  childhood." 

"  AVc  wore  happy,  then,"  said  Alfred. 

'•  Yes,  and  we  are  liappy  now." 

••  Happy  in  the  present,  Ella;  but  there  is 
a  future." 

"  And  there  must  be  happiness  there, 
loo,"  said  the  fair  girl. 

■^  Perhaps  so,"  returned  Alfred,  gazing 
half  sadly  into  the  face  of  his  companion. 

Their  eyes  met.  Over  the  face  of  Ella 
there  came  a  strange  look  of  unmistakable 
love,  and  gently  she  put  forth  her  hand  and 
rested  it  upon  Alfred's  arm. 

"Tell  me  your  thoughts,"  she  said. 

"They  are  such  as  may  not  be  spoken," 
returned  the  young  man,  while  his  nether 
lip  trembled. 

"  Then  they  were  not  of  me  ?  " 

"Of3^ou?" 

"  If  you  would  not  speak  them,  how  can 
they  be  ?  " 

•'  Ah,  Ella— they  are  of  you." 

"  Then  speak  them." 

"  Would  indeed  I  dared." 

The  fair  girl  started  and  gazed  more  ear- 
nestly into  her  companion's  face.  She  saw 
the  trembling  of  the  lips,  and  she  saw,  too, 
the  glittering  tear  that  stood  upon  his  dark 
lashes.  She  moved  her  hand  closer  to  his 
own,  and  soon  it  was  nestled  there. 

"  Tell  me,  Alfred,"  she  whispered,  while 
her  heart  fluttered  till  its  beatings  were 
almost  audible,  "  the  thoughts  that  move 
you  thus." 

"  Can  you  not  read  them  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

'*  Then  why  should  I  tell  them  ?  " 

"  They  might  be  music  to  my  soul." 

"Ella*!" 

"  Can  you  not  understand  me,  Alfred?  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  be  mistaken,"  exclaimed 
our  hero.  ''  You  do  know  my  heart,  and 
you  can  return  me  the  warmest  feelings  of 
your  own.  You  have  unloosed  my  tongue, 
and  I  will  speak.  I  love  you,  Ella,  with  my 
whole  soul  I  love  you." 

"  And  of  that  you  were  thinking?  " 

"  Yes,  and  of  that  I  have  thought  since  I 
came  beneath  this  roof." 


"  And  are  you  not  happy  in  that  love  ?  " 

"  Happy  ?  " 

"Ay,  Alfred— happy ?  You  used  to  be 
happy  when  you  loved  me." 

"  Yes,  yes;  but  'twas  not  such  love  as 
this.  Then  I  felt  you  were  all  my  own,  ami 
the  affections  of  my  young  heart  clung 
about  you  to  protect  and  shield  you.  Now 
you  no  longer  need  my  protection.  We  are 
grown  up,  and  the  sentiments  we  cultivate 
will  be  firmly  fixed  in  our  fates.  I  cannot 
hide  it  from  me  that  my  love  would  be  dan- 
gerous now." 

"Dangerous?"  repeated  Ella,  with  a 
stui«tled  air. 

"  I  do  not  surely  understand  you." 

"  You  can  see  it  all,  Ella;  but  yet  I  can 
speak  more  plainly." 

"  Speak,"  the  fair  girl  whispered, 

"  Then  since  3^ou  bid  me,  you  will  know 
my  heart.  I  have  told  you  that  I  love  you; 
but,  oh,  mine  is  a  love  that  must  not  be 
cherished  unless  it  may  live  in  the  pres- 
ence of  its  object  evermore.  In  short,  there 
is  one  holy  name  that  can  alone  give  forth 
its  image ;  one  name  alone  on  all  the  earth 
that  can  syllable  its  thought." 

"  And  that  name  ?  "  murmured  Ella. 

"  Wife,"  uttered  Alfred  ina  thrillingtonc. 

Ella  bowed  her  head,  and  her  hand  trem- 
bled violently.  But  soon  her  eyes  were 
fixed  again  upon  her  companion,  and  a  fond, 
affectionate  smile  was  breaking  around  her 
finely  chiselled  lips." 

"  Alfred,"  she  said,  with  only  a  slight 
tremulousness  in  her  tone,  "  you  have  told 
me  that  which  I  had  fondly  hoped  might  be 
true." 

"  But  can  there  be  hope  for  me  ?  " 

"  Why  should  there  not  be  ?  Your  heart 
can  feel  no  more  than  can  mine.  Ah!  Al- 
fred, you  little  know  me,  if  you  think  I 
could  forget  all  those  tender  sympathies  and 
gentle  deeds  of  kindness  that  were  the  sun- 
beams of  my  girlhood.  No,  no,  my  heart  is 
all  your  own — all — all" 

"  O  God  bless  you,  sweet  EUal  "  ejaculat- 
ed the  youth,  as  he  pressed  the  fair  girl  to  his 
bosom. 


62 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN:  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


Their  lips  met,  and  with  that  simple  kiss 
was  locked  the  chain  that  mortal  hand  might 
never  put  asunder. 

Moments  passed;  bliss-laden  moments, 
ere  Alfred  spoke  again.  Then  a  cloud  set- 
tled over  his  features,  and  his  deep  blue  eye 
looked  sad. 

"  Ahl  I  knew  you  loved  me,"  he  said; 
''  but  there  is  a  third  whose  will  must  be 
law,  that  shall  govern  our  fates.  Your 
father's  wishes  may  not  be  in  my  favor. 

"  O  Alfred,  you  wrong  my  father,  if  you 
think  he  would  oppose  us  in  our  love.  He 
is  too  generous,  too  kind,  too  noble-hearted 
for  that." 

"  I  know  he  is  kind  and  generous;  but  I 
fear  you  misunderstand  him." 

"Ah,  no!  It  is  you  who  misunderstand 
him,  Alfred.  He  would  not  have  left  us 
here  together,  had  he  entertained  objections 
to  our  union.  What  do  I  not  owe  you?" 
she  continued,  with  increased  warmth. 
"  What  does  he  not  owe  you  ?  I  know  Sir 
William  will  not  oppose  us.  He  will  not 
crush  the  holiest  blossom  of  my  whole 
opening  womanhood." 

And  so  the  sanguine  girl  thought.  She 
looked  upon  her  companion  with  the  whole 
loving  confidence  of  her  ardent  soul,  and  she 
knew  not  that  earth  had  an  obstacle  to  throw 
in  the  way  of  her  hopes.  But  with  Alfred 
the  case  was  different.  His  life  had  been 
one  of  disappointment,  and  even  now  he 
could  not  shake  off  the  heavy  load  of  fear 
that  weighed  him  down. 

''  Come,  come,"  said  Ella,  as  she  noticed 
the  deepening  sorrow  on  her  lover's  face; 
*'  be  happy  as  you  used  to  in  years  gone  by. 
We  will  be  as  we  were  then,  and  through 
our  whole  life  we  shall  remain  so.  You 
shall  love  me  and  care  for  me,  and  I  will 
share  your  every  sorrow,  and  never,  never 
cease  to  love  you.  Come,  be  happy  now, 
and  smile  as  you  used  to  smile." 

''  Blessed,  blessed  girll  "  cried  Alfred, 
while  the  warm  tears  started  forth  from  his 
eyes.  "  You  will  make  me  hope  in  spite  of 
myself." 

"  No,  no,  j-ou  shall  hope  with  a  hope  that 
haih  foundation.     Love  shall  bid  you  hope; 


and  love  is  a  gentle,  yet  powerful  monitor.*' 

"  Oh,  would  that  I  could  throw  every 
doubt  away.  Would  that  I  could  see  the 
future  as  bright  as  your  love's  pencil  paints 
it." 

"  Harkl  O  Alfred,  that  is  my  father's 
step.  Some  time  j'ou  shall  ask  him  all. 
You  will,  and  I  will  be  your  second.  lie 
will  not  refuse  us." 

Alfred  opened  a  book  that  lay  by  his  side, 
and  while  he  was  yet  endeavoring  to  remove 
the  tear  marks  from  his  face,  the  old  admiral 
entered.  Ella  sprang  to  meet  him.  He 
kissed  her  fair  brow,  and  then  he  turn6<l  to 
Alfred. 

"  Home  once  more,"  he  said,  a3  he 
grasped  the  young  man  by  the  hand.  "  Ah! 
we  had  some  bad  business  at  Portsmouth. 
There's  to  be  a  hanging  at  the  end  of  our 
work." 

Alfred  trembled  like  an  aspen,  and  then 
his  face  turned  pale  as  death.  Sir  William 
then  for  the  first  time  noticed  the  youth's 
tears.  A  dark  shadow  flitted  across  hir5  own 
face,  and  for  some  moments  he  gazed  fixed- 
ly into  the  le&tures  of  his  young  guest. 

"  Ella,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  child,  and 
seeming  to  speak  more  for  the  purpose  of 
saying  something  behind  which  to  hide  liis 
real  thoughts  than  to  convey  any  news  of 
importance,  "  we  shall  have  company  to- 
morrow. My  old  friend.  Doctor  Holland, 
came  on  with  me  from  Portsmouth.  He 
was  my  surgeon  for  many  years;  and  as  for 
you,  Alfred,  I  think  that  between  the  doctor 
and  myself  we  can  bring  about  a  good  berth 
for  you." 

The  young  man  expressed  his  gratitude, 
and  shortly  afterwards  he  arose  and  left  the 
room.  A  thought  had  entered  his  mind  that 
made  his  head  reel  with  wild  emotion,  and 
he  only  sought  to  be  alone. 

"  Stop,  Ella,"  said  the  old  man,  after 
Alfred  had  gone,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

Ella  stepped  back  to  the  seat  from  which 
she  had  risen,  and  her  father  continued:  — 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Alfred  ?  " 

"  Matter,  father  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  had  been  weeping  when  I 
came  in,  had  he  not  ?  " 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


Ella  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  she 
arose  and  approached  her  father.  She 
leaned  over,  and  with  her  hand  I'csting  upon 
bis  arm,  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  calm  trust: — 

'*  He  had  been  weeping,  father;  but  it 
was  from  fears  that  have  no  foundation.  I 
trieil  to  assure  him  that  his  fate  would  be  a 
happier  one  than  he  had  tried  to  imagine." 

"But  what  was  it,  my  child  ?  "  asked  Sir 
William,  drawing  Ella  upon  his  knee. 

His  voice  trembled,  and  upon  his  counte- 
nance were  shades  of  fear. 

"  Can  you  not  guess,  father  ?  " 

"  1  would  rather  you  should  tell  me." 

"Then  I  will,  for  surely  I  could  wish  to 
keep  nothing  from  my  father.  Alfred  has 
confessed  to  me — no,  no — I  made  him  tell 
me — that  he  loved  me,  and  he  feared  that 
you  would  reject  him.  But  I  knew  that  you 
"What  ails  you,  father  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  child,  in  my  simple  trust  I  did 
not  think  of  thisl  "  exclaimed  the  old  man, 
trembling  violently. 

"  Did  not  think  of  what,  father?  " 

"  Of  this  thing  that  has  happened." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  Surely  you  misunder- 
stand me,"  returned  Ella,  drawing  her  arm 
about  her  parent's  neck.  "I  l(»ld  you  that 
Alfred  loved  me — that  he  loved  me  with  his 
wliolo  noble,  generous  and  pure  soul;  and 
God  knows  how  fondly  I  love  him  in  return. 
Oh,  I  knew  I  could  assure  him  that  you 
were  too  kind  to  refuse  him  my  hand.  I 
knew  you  would  noi  refuse  me  the  happiest 
boon  I  could  ask  on  earth." 

'•  And  did  you  assure  him  all  this  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  But  what  makes  you  look  so 
strangely,  father  ?  What  makes  you  trem- 
ble so  ?  Oh,  heaven  forbid  that  1  have  done 
augl.r  to  p;iin  you!  " 

"  Alas!  my  child,  you  know  not  what  you 
have  done.  I  was  a  fool  to  leave  yon  thus; 
but  T  thought  you  would  look  upon  each 
other  only  as  brother  and  sister.  Ella,  this 
can  never  be." 

"  vOh,  you  mean  not  that!  You  do  not 
nn'-.in  that  I  may  not  be  the  wife  of  Alfred  ?  " 

"  It  cannot  be.  1  will  do  an\ thing  for 
jour  liappiuess,  anyihing  for  your  comfort; 
but  I  cannot  do  this!" 


"  Why,  why,  oh,  why  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me  now!  " 

"  Is  not  Alfred  noble  and  good  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  not  virtuous  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  not  just  and  honorable  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  he  not  well  educated  and  gentle- 
manly ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  did  he  not  snatch  me  from  the 
hand  of  death,  when  no  one  else  was  by  to 
give  me  succor  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  has  he  not  a  right  to  love  me,  in 
that  he  it  was  who  planted  in  my  mind  seeds 
of  pure  and  holy  thought;  who  first  led  ra« 
to  a  knowledge  of  my  God  and  my  Saviour  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  deny  it." 

"  Then  what  shall  now  keep  us  asunder  ? 
Is  it  because  he  is  poor  ?  because" 

"  Stop,  stop,  my  child,"  cried  the  old 
man,  in  tones  of  agony.  "  You  know  not 
all  you  have  to  fear.  I  cannot  tell  you  now, 
for  I  nmst  see  and  converse  with  Alfred. 
O  God,  would  that  he  had  never  come  to  my 
home!  I  did  not  think  of  this,  I  did  not 
think  of  it!  " 

Ella  was  now  moved  more  by  the  strange 
agony  of  her  aged  parent  than  she  wjis  by 
the  thought  (»f  what  he  liad  said,  and  throw- 
ing her  arms  about  his  neck,  she  imparted  a 
warm  kiss  upon  his  cheek. 

"  There,  my  sweet  child,  go  to  your  mom 
now.  Oh,  heaven  grant  that  this  blow  fall 
not  heavil}'  upon  you.  Bear  up,  Ella,  for 
your  own  sake,  for  my  sake,  try  to  forget 
what  has  passed." 

The  girl  took  a  step  towards  the  door,  and 
then  she  stopped.  She  turned  her  tearful 
eyes  upon  her  father,  she  tottered  forward, 
and  again  sank  upon  his  bosom. 

"  Oh,  my  father,  I  cannot  bear  this!  Do 
not  tear  my  heart  thus  from  its  early,  only 
love!  " 

"  Leave  me  now,"  the  old  man  uttered. 
"  I  will  see  yon  again." 

The  stricken  girl  retired  to  her  room,  and 
the  admiral  fell  almost  senseless  into  a  scut. 


64        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL.,. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  LIFE  GROWS  DARKER  YET. 

On  the  following  morning  Ella  did  not 
come  down  to  breakfast  as  usual.  Sir  Will- 
iam looked  sad  and  heavy-hearted,  and  Al- 
fred was  full  of  fear  and  trembling.  He  had 
vague  forebodings  of  evil,  and  he  thought 
that  the  sea  of  bitter  trial  was  again  to  open 
its  tempestuous  passage  for  him. 

Early  in  the  forenoon,  while  Sir  William 
and  our  hero  were  in  one  of  the  lower  draw- 
ing rooms,  where  they  had  sat  for  half  an 
hour  in  utter  silence,  one  of  the  servants 
handed  the  baronet  a  card, 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
read  the  name  upon  the  missive. 

It  was  an  elderly  gentleman  who  was 
introduced,  and  he  wore  the  uniform  of 
a  surgeon  in  the  royal  navy.  He  was  pre- 
sented to  our  hero  as  Doctor  Robert  Hol- 
land. 

"  Harrold,  did  j^ou  say.  Sir  William?" 
asked  the  doctor,  as  he  gazed  into  Alfred's 
face. 

The  doctor  pulled  the  old  admiral  one 
side,  and  for  some  moments  they  conversed 
in  a  low  whisper. 

Holland  started  across  the  room  as  soon  as 
he  had  done  whispering,  and  a  dozen  times 
did  he  pace  the  length  of  the  room  with 
quick,  nervous  strides. 

"  Why,  what  has  possessed  you,  doctor  ?  " 
asked  Sir  William,  in  surprise. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  returned  Holland;  and  as 
he  answered  he  sank  into  a  chair,  took  up  a 
book,  opened  it  bottom  upwards,  and  then 
began  to  toss  his  foot  in  a  strange  manner. 

The  baronet  regarded  him  for  some  mo- 
ments in  silence. 

"  Doctor,"  he  said  at  length,  ''  will  you 
excuse  me  a  few  moments  ?  " 

"  Medicine  chest  isn't  here," 

"  I  say,  will  you  excuse  me  for  a  short 
time?" 

"  Excuse — eh  ?  You  haven't  done  any- 
thing wrong," 

"  You  don't  understand  me,"  uttered  Sir 
William,  not  a  little  puzzled  by  the  doctor's 
actions.     "  I  wish  to  leave  you  for  a  while." 


"  Ah — oh — yes,  yes — now  I  see.  Yes, 
jes,"  said  the  surgeon,  arousing  from  hia 
deep  reverie.  "  You  can  go.  Yes,  yes,  I'll 
stay  until  you  come  back." 

The  baronet  beckoned  for  Alfred  to  fol- 
low him,  and  then  turning  from  the  room  he 
led  the  way  to  the  library.  When  once 
there  he  closed  the  door,  and  having  bid  the 
young  man  to  be  seated,  he  sank  into  his 
own  great  chair. 

Several  times  Sir  William  seemed  on  the 
point  of  speaking,  but  his  words  did  not 
come  forth.  Minutes  passed  awaj',  and  yet 
the  two  cast  occasional  glances  at  each  other 
— nervous,  uneasy  glances — without  saying 
a  word.  The  silence  was  beco,ming  oppres- 
sive, and  at  length  the  old  man  spoke. 

"  Alfred,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feel- 
ing and  anxiety,  "  the  hour  has  come  in 
which  I  must  be  plain  with  you.  It  would 
give  me  pain  to  be  the  instrument  of  un- 
happiness  to  you,  but  when  you  know  all, 
you  will  not,  cannot  blame  me,  I  conversed 
with  Ella  last  evening,  and  she  told  me  all 
that  had  transpired  between  you.  That  sub- 
ject upon  which  you  dwelt  must  go  no  far- 
ther. My  child  can  never  be  more  to  you 
than  she  is  now.  Perhaps  I  was  to  blame 
for  leaving  you  and  Ella  together,  but  I  did 
not  hold  a  suspicion  that  there  would  arise 
between  you  any  other  feelings  than  those 
which  a  brother  and  sister  might  feel," 

"  Pardon  me,  Sir  William,"  returned  the 
youth,  with  a  look  and  tone  in  which  were 
shadowed  forth  all  the  anguish  of  that  ach- 
ing heart,  "  I  could  not  keep  back  the  fond 
love  that  for  so  many  years  has  been  the  sun- 
light of  my  drearj'  path.  I  could  not  hide 
from  Ella  the  heart  that  must  be  ever  hers. 
But  I  know  I  may  never  be  in  the  happy 
possession  of  her  hand.  I  am  too  poor,  too 
humble  for  such  aspirations." 

"  Ah,  Alfred!  you  misunderstand  me. 
Poverty  and  humble  birth  weigh  not  against 
you.  Oh,  it  is  something  deeper  than 
that." 

The  young  man  started,  and  again  that 
deadly  pallor  overspread  his  features.  His 
breath  came  heavy  and  quick,  and  his  head 
was  bowed.     When  he  looked  up.  hi-  foat- 


THE  STORM    CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIOHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


65 


rrres  had  grown  calmer — the  muaclea  hatl  as- 
sumed a  rigid  expression — the  thin  lips  were 
almost  colorless,  and  the  deep  blue  eyes  were 
swimming  in  a  sort  of  painful  glare. 

'*  J>ir  William,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of 
strange,  unnatural  calmness,  "  do  you  know 
the  story  of  my  family — of  my  earliest  life  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  I  would  hear  it." 

•*  I  will  tell  you  all,  Alfred,  all;  and  then 
you  will  know  why  I  have  done  as  I  have. 
Your  father  was  Sir  John  Lanford,  and  he 
was  a  rear  admiral  in  our  navy." 

"  Can  it  be  so  ?  "  ejaculated  the  youth, 
closing  his  eyes  and  sinking  back.  "  Now  I 
know  it  all;  but  go  on,  sir." 

"  Your  father  and  myself  were  brought 
up  together  from  childhood.  We  were 
midshipmen  together,  and  together  we 
passed  through  the  various  grades  till  we 
were  both  a<lmiral9.  Sir  John  had  command 
of  a  fleet  in  the  Mediterranean  during  the 
last  French  war,  and  he  surrendered  his 
own  ship  into  the  hands  of  the  French  at 
Tou2on.  He  did  it  without  striking  hardly  a 
blow  in  defence;  and  for  doing  it  he  re- 
ceived from  the  French  government  one 
hundred  thousand  pounds." 

•*  Oh,  mercy  I  "  groaned  Alfred. 

*'  He  received  it  in  promissory  notes  and 
drafts  signed  and  sealed  by  the  French  min- 
ister. This  business  was  done  very  secret- 
ly, but  such  a  remarkable  piece  of  work 
oonld  not  remain  a  secret.  The  French  min- 
wtcr  told  the  story  of  his  dealings  with  Sir 
John,  and  in  a  very  short  time  our  own  gov- 
ernment got  hold  of  the  matter.  An  ex- 
change of  prisoners  was  quickly  made,  and 
the  admiral  was  brought  home  aud  tried. 
In  a  small  depjirlmont  of  one  of  his  chests 
were  found  the  notes  of  the  French  minis- 
tor,  and  also  all  the  letters  he  had  received 
from  the  enomy.  These  letters  were  all  of 
thrm  genuine,  bearing  the  unmistakable 
hand  and  seal  of  the  Frenchman,  and  the 
giull  was  loo  apparent  to  admit  of  even  a 
doubt.  Shortly  before  this  trial  Sir  John  re- 
ceived news  of  the  death  of  his  wife.  All 
about  him  was  dark  and  sunless,  and  he 
made  but  a  feeble  plea  for  innocence.    Of 


course  he  was  found  guilty  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous species  of  high  treason,  and  con- 
demned to  be  hanged.  After  his  condem- 
nation, he  barely  answered  when  spoken  to, 
offering  no  assertions  of  innocence.  He 
asked  to  be  hung  on  shipboard,  and  the  re- 
quest was  granted.  I  had  to  attend  the  exe- 
cution. I  saw  him  hanged,  and  1  saw  his 
corpse  consigned  to  the  deep  grave  of  the 
ocean.  He  had  begged  that  be  might  be 
thus  buried." 

"  Oh,  terriblel  "  groaned  Alfred. 

"  It  was  hard,"  resumed  Sir  William, 
while  the  big  tears  rolled  down  his  furrowed 
cheeks;  "  it  was  hard;  but  it  may  have  been 
just.  Before  your  father  died  he  made  me 
promise  that  he  would  look  after  his  child, 
then  but  a  year  old.  I  went  to  Gloucester, 
whither  it  had  been  carried,  but  I  found 
that  the  little  boy  had  gon€.  The  people 
told  me  that  two  men  had  come  and  taken 
him,  and  that  they  came  with  a  written  or- 
der from  Sir  John  himself.  By  the  de«crip- 
tion  I  received,  I  knew  they  must  have  been 
Marrok  Pettrell  and  Mark  Bronkon,  two 
petty  officers  who  had  belonged  on  board 
your  father's  ship,  and  who  had  been  quite 
conspicuous  at  the  trial. 

"  When  I  met  you,  four  years  ago  in 
Cumberland,  I  knew  you  at  once,  and  if  I 
had  a  doubt,  it  w.'is  put  at  rest  Avhcn  you 
told  me  your  story.  Then  I  meant  to  have 
helpe<i  you,  out  of  the  love  I  bore  your 
father;  but  now  I  owe  the  debt  to  you.  I 
have  obtained  you  a  commission  in  the 
navy,  but  you  must  still  bear  the  name  of 
Ilarrold.  The  name  of  your  father  is  sunk 
in" 

"StopI  stop!"  cried  Alfred,  springing  to 
his  feet.  "  Heap  not  more  infamy  uixjn  my 
father's  name,  for  by  the  Judge  of  all  thinga, 
I  believe  he  was  innocent." 

"It  was  hanl,  Alfred,  to  believe  him  guil- 
ty; but  so  the  world  must  ever  hold  him. 
Can  you  wouder  now  that  I  could  not  link 
my  daughter's  name  with  your  own  ?  " 

"  Xo,  no,  Sir  William.  I  am  used  to  mis- 
fortune, and  I  have  schooled  myself  to  Ix'ar 
it.  This  earth  has  no  happiness  for  nio. 
Since  the  first  moment  of  my  chiklhoo  !'-; 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


memory  I  have  pursued  the  path  of  honor 
with  UD  wavering  footsteps.  I  have  courted 
virtue  with  the  whole  ardor  of  my  soul;  and 
though  sin  has  set  against  me  in  wild  tem- 
pests of  fearful  power,  yet  never  have  I 
turacd  a  single  step  with  its  flood.  But 
miseiy  is  mine.  I  was  born  lo  it,  and  if 
must  be  my  lot.     I  do  not  blame  you,  sir." 

A  moment  the  youth  hesitated.  Then  his 
eye  sparkled — his  bosom  heaved,  and  with 
strange  vehemence  he  exclaimed: — 

"But  by  heavens!  sir,  my  father  was  an 
innocent  man  I  Oh,  why  were  those  papers 
snatched  from  me  I  " 

**  Papers  1  "  repeated  the  baronet. 

*'  Yes,  yes — papers  which  Mark  Bronkon 
gave  me."  And  Alfred  related  the  circum- 
stances as  the  reader  already  knows  them. 

When  he  had  concluded.  Sir  William  arose 
from  his  seat  and  began  to  pace  the  floor. 
When  he  stopped,  it  was  directly  in  front  of 
the  youth,  and  there  was  an  expression  of 
more  than  common  anxiety  upon  his  feat- 
ures. 

"Would  to  God  I  could  have  seen  those 
papers,"  he  uttered.  "  But  I  do  not  see 
how  he  could  have  been  innocent.  lie  must 
hiive  had  a  hand  in  the  affair,  for  on  that 
night  there  was  not  a  sentry  on  post.  On 
boartl  that  ship,  anchored  within  thirteen 
miles  of  an  enemy's  heavy  battery,  there 
were  but  one  or  two  men  on  deck,  and  even 
they  gave  no  alarm  when  the  enemy's  boats 
eame  alongside.  Yet  I  would  that  I  could 
Iiave  seen  those  papers." 

"They  are  lost  nowl  Lost  forever  1  " 
murmured  Alfred,  burying  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

A  long  silence  ensued,  which  was  at  length 
broken  by  the  baronet. 

'"  Alfred,"  he  said,  "  you  must  promise 
me  that  you  will  not  think  of  Ella  again  in 
any  other  light  than  that  of  a  friend." 

"  Anything;  I  can  promise  anything 
now,"  returned  the  youth,  in  a  tone  of 
utU"  dejection,  "  Anything  of  earth  I  can 
non-  <rive  up  without  another  pang.  The 
de<Kh-angcl  alone  can  lift  me  to  enjoyment 
again.  Go,  sii' — go  tell  EUadl.  Tell  her  to 
prny  fur  me  sometimes,  and  to  think  of  me 


as  one  who  loved  her  truly  and  well.    Yon 
will  not  forget  that  I — I" 

The  poor  youth  choked  with  emotion. 
He  lifted  his  eyes  towards  the  old  man,  and 
with  a  faint  murmur  upon  his  lips — a  mur- 
mur that  bore  no  palpable  word  upon  its 
breath — he  turned  and  left  the  room. 

Sir  William  would  have  followed  him,  but 
he  could  not — he  was  too  much  overcome. 
When  he  did  at  length  arise  to  go,  he  was     I 
met  by  his  daughter.  i 

"  Where  is  Alfred  ?  "  she  asked.  ■ 

"  He  has  just  left  me,  my  child." 

"And  what  did  you  tell  him?    Oh,  you 
did  not  refuse  him  as  you  did  me.    Yoti 
told  him  that  he  might  stay  and  make  me      ' 
happy;  that  I  might  be  his  own  Ella  for- 
ever.    You  did,  did  you  not,  my  father  ?  "         j 

The  old  man  sank  back  into  his  seat  en-  | 
tirely  overcome  by  this  fresh  attack  upon 
his  already  weeping  soul.  It  was  a  long 
time  before  he  could  answer;  but  at  length 
he  whispered  into  Ella's  car  the  whole  tale 
of  Alfred's  misfortune,  and  of  the  igno- 
miny that  hung  about  his  name. 

"And  must  he  suffer  for  this?"  ex- 
claimed the  fair  girl,  with  an  earnestness 
her  father  had  little  expected.  "Oh,  my 
father,  has  not  Alfred  already  suffered 
enough  ?  Let  me  go  to  him.  Let  rac  go 
and  pour  the  balm  of  peace  over  his  tor- 
tured soul.  He  was  ever  noble — ever  good 
to  me.  He  loves  me  fondly,  devotedly. 
Oh,  let  me  gol  " 

"Hush,  my  child.  You  know  not  what 
you  ask.  Look  forth  upon  the  world,  upon 
the  future,  and  see  my  child  linked  for  life 
with  the  child  of  one  who  was  publicly 
hanged! " 

"The  world!  The  future!"  repeated 
Ella,  with  a  heaving  bosom.  "  I  carry  my 
world  and  my  future  in  my  own  soul.  Oh, 
lay  not  the  blame  of  a  father's  crime  at  the 
door  of  the  suffering  son.  Let  us  rather 
bless  him  with  the  love-light  of  our  kind 
smiles.  Oh,  we  can  make  him  happy!  It 
lays  in  our  power  to  make  his  life  all  bright 
and  joyous.    Shall  we  refuse  ?  " 

"  O  Ella,  you  know  not  what  you  ask. 
Say  no  more — say  no  more,  or  I  shall  suffer 


THE  STORM   CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


67 


more  than  I  can  bear.  If  you  would  not 
see  your  poor  father's  head  brought  in  sor- 
row to  the  grave,  think  of  this  thing  no 
more." 

Sir  William  waa  kind,  but  his  family  pride 
was  strong,  Ella  knew  it,  and  she  felt  that 
he  would  not  bend. 

•'  Ciod  have  mercy  on  himl "  the  poor 
yirl  ejaculat-ed.  "  He  will  have  no  home 
now.-' 

'*  Yee,  yes,  my  child.  I  have  already  pro- 
vided a  good  place  for  him." 

"  ALosI  I  fear  he  will  not  accept  it  But 
let  us  go  and  find  him.  I^et  m«  at  least  see 
him  once  more." 

Sir  William  started  up  from  his  seat.  A 
sudden  thought  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
Alfred  might  have  left  the  house.  He  had 
not  thought  of  such  a  thing  before,  but  now 
the  fear  came  upon  him.  He  left  the  librar- 
ry  and  descended  to  the  drawing-room,  but 
AKrcd  was  not  there.  He  went  to  the  hall, 
and  the  youtb's  hat  waa  gone. 

"Father,  he  has  gone!"  murmured  the 
fair  girl,  as  she  leaned  her  head  upon  the 
-l^som  of  her  parent. 

The  old  man  had  no  word  to  say.  His 
brain  reeled  and  he  tottered  back,  and  with 
his  child  upon  his  bosom  he  sank  down  upon 
a  fauteuil  that  stood  against  the  wall.  He 
felt  that  the  youth  to  whom  he  owed  the  life 
of  his  daughter  had  fled  from  him,  and  that 
he  had  gone  forth  with  new  misery  in  his 
soul.  He  thought  of  his  child,  too;  and  he 
groaned  in  the  heaviness  of  his  grief. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  FIRST  STREAK  OF  DAWN. 

With  a  dizzy,  aching  head,  Alfred  has- 
tened away  from  the  dwelling  of  Sir  William 
Brent.  He  could  not  stay  there  and  feel  the 
degradation  which  had  fallen  upon  him. 
With  hurried  steps  he  moved  on,  and  at 
length  he  turned  towards  the  churchyard  in 
Westminster,  where  Bronkon  h;ul  tokl  him 
his  mother  wa.'^  buried.  He  reached  the 
place,  and  c^usily  gained  access  to  the  yard, 
lie  found  n  white  marble  block — a  simple, 
|»}fijn  mt  in<'n;o — and  on  it  read: — 


"  Cabouns,  wife  of  Sir  John  Lcmdford,  Bart." 

Alfred  leaned  against  the  cold  stone,  and 
the  warm  tears  flowed  freely  forth.  He 
sank  down  upon  his  knees,  and  his  heart 
felt  lighter  when  he  had  prayed.  Once 
more  he  had  resolved  to  walk  straight  on  in 
the  path  of  duty,  though  that  path  m^ht 
seem  dark  as  utter  night. 

Over  an  hour  did  the  youth  remain  In 
that  home  of  the  mouldering  dead;  and 
when  he  at  length  turned  his  steps  away,  the 
tears  had  been  dried  from  his  face,  but  his 
heart  was  sad.  He  knew  not  which  way  to 
turn,  for  he  had  no  home,  no  destination  on 
earth.  He  turned  to  take  one  more  look 
npon  the  churchyard,  and  then  ^  moTed 
away. 

He  took  hie  eourtse  towards  the  river,  but 
ere  he  had  gained  the  piers  he  was  startled 
by  hearing  his  own  name  pronounced.  He 
looked  around,  and  near  him  saw  an  oldish- 
looking  man  with  a  gray  beard  and  slouched 
hat,  who  was  closely  regarding  him.  Our 
hero  again  started  to  pass  on,  wkem  th« 
stranger  called  to  him  a  second  tine. 

**  Alfred,"  said  the  man. 

**  That's  my  name,"  returned  the  youth, 
utterly  unable  to  recognize  the  man  who 
had  called  him. 

"  Just  come  with  me,"  said  the  stranger. 

'•  For  what  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  something  you  would  lika 
to  know." 

"But  first  I  should  like  to  know  you." 

"  That  wouldn't  do  you  any  good.  Com* 
with  me,  and  you  shaU  have  reason  to  thank 
me." 

Alfred  still  hesitated.  He  ha^J  never  seen 
the  man  before,  that  he  could  remember, 
and,  besides,  he  looked  rough  and  uninviting. 

"  Tell  me  who  you  are,  and  then  I  may -go 
with  you." 

"I  cannot  tell  you  here;  but  just  follow 
me  a  short  distance,  ami  you  shaD  know 
what  you  ask,  and  more,  too.     Oome." 

•'  Tell  me  your  business  firft.  I  know  you 
not." 

"  Don't  fool  away  your  time  too  long,  or 
you  may  lose  what  you  might  wish  mu<.b  fo 
gnin,"  soid  the  stranger,  with  ;v  show  ofi  Ina- 


liE   STORM   CHILDREN:   OR.    THE   LIGHT-KEEPER  OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


patience.  "  I  will  not  reveal  myself  here 
in  the  street,  but  come  to  that  old  tavern 
there,  where  you  see  the  sign  of  the  pipe 
and  t<ankard,  and  you  shall  know  me.  Come, 
if  you  choose." 

As  the  man  spoke  he  started  towards  the 
place  pointed  out.  Alfred  hesitated  but  a 
moment  longer,  and  then  he  followed.  He 
knew  of  no  danger  to  apprehend.  The 
stranger  and  our  hero  entered  the  tavern  to- 
gether. It  was  a  dirty  place,  and  in  the  tap- 
room were  some  dozen  villanous-looking  fel- 
lows engaged  in  smoking  and  drinking. 
Alfred's  companion  beckoned  to  the  greasy 
publican  and  asked  for  a  private  room. 
The  fellow  moved  his  corpulent  body  with 
wonderful  alacrity,  seeming  to  look  upon 
the  stranger  with  a  deferential  air,  and  &oon 
the  room  was  provided. 

The  man  turned  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the 
door,  and  then  turned  towards  our  hero. 

"  Alfred,  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

**  I  do  not  remember  you,"  returned  the 
youth,  vainly  endeavoring  to  call  to  mind 
some  scene  in  which  a  man  with  such  looks 
had  borne  a  part. 

"Ha,  ha,  hal  I  shall  feel  safe  now,"  ut- 
tered the  fellow;  and  he  pulled  the  gray 
%eard  from  his  face. 

"Galium!"  uttered  our  hero,  in  blank 
astonishment. 

"  Paul  CaUum,  at  your  service,"  returned 
the  escaped  pirate.  "You  don't  wonder 
that  I  keep  close,  do  you  ?  Poor  fellows  are 
we  who  dare  not  look  honest  men  in  the 
face.  Bv.t  that  don't  matter  now.  I've  been 
dodging  about  Lunnun  these  three  weeks, 
trying  to  get  a  sight  of  you,  and  now  you've 
hove  in  sight.  Tell  me,  Alfred,  didn't  ye 
rose  something  when  you  were  cast  away  on 
the  Cornwall  coast  ?  " 

"  Lose? — ^yes,  yesi  "  cried  the  youth. 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  A  package." 

"  Done  up  in  oiled  silk  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes." 

"  Well,,  don't  look  so  frightened,  for  I  hap- 
pened to  find  if." 

"  And  have  you  got  it  with  you  ?  " 

*'  of  coiirse  I  have." 


"Safe?— safe?  Let  me  see  it,  Paul;  let- 
me  see  it!  " 

"  That's  it,"  returned  Callum,  drawing 
the  package  from  his  bosom.  "It  hasn't 
been  opened.  There  it  is,  just  as  I  found 
it,  and  you  shall  have  it  once  more.  I  have 
took  some  trouble,  and  run  some  dangers, 
to  get  this  back  to  you,  but  you  were  always 
good  and  kind  to  me;  you  taught  me  to  read 
and  writ«,  and  perhaps  I've  now  done  you  a 
service  in  return.  When  we  were  cast 
away,  the  captain  and  BUI  Grinnell  and  me, 
all  three  of  us,  come  ashore  in  the  bunt  of 
the  mainsail.  You  know,  of  course,  that 
the  mainmast  was  over  the  stem  all  the 
while.  We  wasn't  hurt  hardly  any.  In  the 
morning  I  heard  the  captain  tell  BUI  that  he 
wanted  to  find  your  body,  for  he  believed 
Bronkon  had  given  you  something  that  you 
hadn't  ought  to  have  had.  1  found  you  first 
clean  up  to  the  head  of  the  beach,  and  the 
package  was  half  way  out  of  your  bosom. 
Grabbing  it,  I  slipped  it  into  my  bosom,  just 
as  Pettrell  came  up.  I  believed  you  would 
come  to  life,  so  I  determined  to  hang  on  to 
the  package  tUl  I  coiUd  get  it  into  your 
hands.  I  had  to  run,  then;  but  I've  found 
you  now.  and  I  hope  I've  done  you  some 
service." 

"  Service!  "repeated  Alfred,  as  he  grasped 
the  package,  which  he   saw  had  not  been  1 
opened;  "  you've   done  me  more  of  good 
than  even  the  saving  of  my  life.    How  can  I 
repay  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  more  than  repaid  me  now. 
All  I  ask  is  that  you  won't  betray  me.  Pet- 
trell wUl  swing,  and  I  know  he  deserves  it. 
BiU  Grinnell  has  gone  to  the  States  and  I 
shaU  follow  him." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me, 
Paul;  and  if  I  can  assist  you  in  any  way  I 
wUl  do  it.     Have  you  got  money  enough  ?  " 

"  Yes,  plenty." 

"  Then  I  can  only  thank  you  for  your 
favor,  and  pray  that  God  will  henceforth 
help  you  to  lead  an  honest  life." 

"Ah,  Alfred,  that  I  am  determined  to  do, 
I  have  tried  the  path  of  evU  just  long  enough 
to  find  that  there  is  no  peace  for  the  mind, 
nor  real  good  for  the  body,  in  it.     A  poor 


THE   STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEI'EU   OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


fellow  may  make  a  little  money  now  and 
then;  but  what  good  can  it  do  him  when  he 
can't  bless  himself  with  it  ?  No,  no;  there 
is  no  more  of  this  dark  life  for  me.  I'll  go 
where  I'm  not  known,  and  there  I'll  com- 
mence anew.  I'm  not  too  old  to  reform, 
and  I  hive  not  been  so  wicked  but  that  I  may 
find  some  real  happiness  in  it  yet." 

As  Galium  spoke,  he  replaced  the  gray 
beard  upon  his  face,  and  then  arose  from 
his  seat." 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  Alfred.  There, 
God  bless  you  for  all  the  kindness  you  have 
done  for  me;  and  if  ever  I  learn  to  pray 
with  an  honest  heart,  you  shall  be  the  first 
man  I  pray  for." 

"  God  bless  you,  too,  Paul,"  exclaimed  our 
hero,  as  he  returned  the  fellow's  warm  grasp. 
"  You  shall  find  often  a  place  in  my 
prayers." 

*'  Thank  you,  thank  you,  Alfred.  And 
now  let's  be  off.  I'm  bound  now  for 
Gravesend.  I  may  never  see  you  again;  so 
good-by." 

Alfred  shook  Callum's  hand  again,  and 
having  once  more  gained  the  street,  they 
separated,  the  latter  hastening  off  towards 
the  river,  while  the  former  stood  and 
watched  him  until  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"Oh,  mysterious  package!"  murmured 
the  youth,  as  he  pressed  the  same  to  his  bos- 
om; "  God  grant  that  you  contain  the  wand 
that  shall  remove  the  stain  from  my  father's 
namel  I'll  to  Sir  "William's  once  more,  and 
he  shall  see  whether  my  house  is  foul  or 
fair.  Ella,  1  may  never  reach  thee,  but  I 
shall  be  nearer  to  thee,  at  least." 

With  these  words  trembling  upon  his  lips, 
the  youth  quickened  his  pace.  The  sun  was 
just  sinking  from  sight  when  he  entered 
Hanover  Square,  and  with  a  strangely  beat- 
ing heart  he  ascended  the  steps  that  led  to 
the  baronet's  door  and  rang  the  bell. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THB  SEAL    BROKEN— THE  LIFE   BOOK 
OPENED. 

As  Alfred  entered  the  drawing-room  and 
saak  Into  a  seat,  "Thank  heaven  that  you 


have  come  back  to  me,"  Sir  William  fer- 
vently ejaculated;  "  I  feared  that  you 'had 
left  this  place  never  to  return." 

"  I  intended.  Sir  William,  never  to  have 
crossed  your  threshold  again,  for  I- could  not 
dwell  beneath  the  same  roof  with  one  I  so 
wildly  loved,  and  who  was  yet  shut  out  from 
me  forever.  But  an  unexpected  event  haa 
for  the  present  changed  my  plans.  L  have 
recovered  those  papers,  sir,  of  which  I  spoke 
to  you." 

"  Papers  ?  "  repeated  Sir  William. 

"  Those,  sir,  which  Mark  Bronkon  gave 
me,  and  which  may  yet  prove  that  my  fath- 
er was  innocent." 

Doctor  Holland  who  sat  in  the  same  room, 
started  from  his  chair  in  astonishment. 

"  Papers  that  Bronkon  gave  you  ?  "  he 
uttered.  "  Innocent,  did  you  say  ?  Sir 
John  Landford  innocent  ?  " 

"  Let  the  papers  speak  for  themselves,'* 
said  Sir  William. 

"  Here  they  are.  You  shall  open  them," 
said  Alfred,  as  with  a  trembling  hand  he 
drew  the  package  from  his  bosom  and 
passed  it  to  the  baronet. 

Sir  William  took  the  package  and  then 
having  summoned  one  of  his  servants,  he 
called  for  lamps.  When  they  were  brought, 
the  curtains  were  drawn  over  the  windows, 
and  the  parties  drew  their  chairs  up  to  the 
table.  Alfred  trembled  like  an  aspen,  for  a 
single  stroke  of  the  knife  was  to  tell  his 
doom.  The  baronet  cut  the  string,  and 
revealed  quite  a  bundle  of  neatly  folded 
papers. 

The  first  was  directed  to  Alfred,  and  Sir 
William  read  aloud,  as  follows: — 

"  Alfred: — Accompanying  this  you  will 
find  a  full  statement  of  all  the  circumstancea 
connected  with  that  fatal  affair  which  ended  ia 
your  father's  ignominious  death.  God  knows 
that  he  was  innocent,  yet  he  suffered.  The 
confession  I  wrote  shortly  after  you  saved 
my  life  off  the  coast  of  Lancashire,  not  then 
having  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  give  it  to 
you.  liut  now  I  have  resolved  to  make  all 
the  reparation  that  lies  in  my  power.  Some, 
things  that  concern  myself  T  cahnot  write; 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


but  I  shall  tell  them  to  you  if  ever  I  give 
you  the  papers.  I  refer  to  the  relations  ex- 
isting between  myself  and  the  fair  being  who 
gave  you  birth.  When  you  open  this  pack- 
age, you  had  better  seek  out  Sir  William 
Brent,  in  Hanover  Square,  London.  He 
was  your  father's  best  friend,  and  he  may 
help  you.  Forgive  me  the  part  I  took 
against  you,  for  God  knows  I  have  long 
eince  repented  of  it.  Bronkon." 

"Let's  Beet  let's  see!"  quickly  and 
nervously  uttered  Sir  William.  "  Oh,  if 
they  but  prove  that  Sir  John  was  innocent, 
then  his  eon  shall  at  least  receive  the  bless- 
ing! ♦' 

The  next  pai>er  was  opened,  and  it  was 
addressed  to  Alfred,  but  also  bore  a  recom- 
mendation to  "  All  friends  of  Sir  John 
Landford."  The  baronet  opened  it  and 
read: — 

"  Alfred: — Of  course  you  must  know 
that  you  are  no  son  of  Marrok  Pettrell;  but 
you  are,  in  fact,  the  child  of  Sir  John  Land- 
ford,  Rear  Admiral,  who  was  hanged  on 
board  the  '  Sussex,'  for  high  treason.  But 
of  that  crime  your  father  was  wholly  inno- 
cent, Pettrell  and  myself  being  the  prime 
movers  in  the  affair.  Four  years  before 
that  event  Sir  John  tried  a  man  for  mutiny 
on  board  his  own  ship,  and  had  him  hanged. 
That  man  was  Marrok  Pettrell's  brother, 
and  from  that  moment  Marrok  swore  to  be 
revenged.  He  found  me  a  ready  tool  to 
work  with  him,  for  I  was  just  smarting  un- 
der the  wound  I  had  received  in  the  loss  of 
one  whom  I  loved  as  my  own  life,  and  who 
•married  the  admiral.  I  may  sometime  ex- 
plain this  more  fully." 

Here  Alfred  had  to  relate  to  Sir  William 
and  the  doctor  what  Bronkon  had  told  him 
when  he  gave  him  the  package.  Then  the 
Daronet  resumed  his  reading. 

"  Marrok  and  myself  both  shipped  on  Sir 
John's  vessel,  and  it  was  not  long  before  a 
most  extraordinary  opportunity  was  offered 
for  carrying  our  plan  into  execution.  We 
were  anchored  off  the  harbor  of  Toulon, 
whither  we  had  gone  to  regain  two  of  our 


Indiamen  that  had  been  captured  by  the 
French.  Pettrell  had  been  appointed  boat- 
swain's mate,  and  one  day  while  off  in  one 
of  the  boats  after  a  spare  spar  that  had  got 
afloat,  he  was  hailed  by  a  French  officer  who 
had  come  out  in  a  sail-boat.  The  officer 
came  alongside  and  gave  Pettrell  a  letter, 
which  he  requested  might  be  given  to  the 
admiral,  at  the  same  time  stating  that  he 
should  be  there  on  the  next  day,  at  the  same 
hour,  for  an  answer.  The  very  nature  of 
the  circumstances  opened  Pettrell's  mind 
to  a  strange  suspicion.  As  soon  as  he  re- 
turned to  the  ship  he  drew  me  one  side  and 
showed  me  the  letter.  We  broke  the  seal 
and  found  it  to  be  a  proposition  from  the 
French  commander,  offering  to  Sir  John  tlie 
sum  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds  if  he 
would  quietly  surrender  the  ship  into  their 
hands. 

"  The  letter  was  again  folded  up,  and  the 
seal  melted  together,  and  Pettrell  went  to 
the  cabin  and  delivered  it  to  the  admiral. 
In  the  meantime  I  obtained  some  of  Sir 
John's  chirography,  and  then  sat  down  and 
wrote  an  answer  to  the  Frenchman's  letter, 
partially  accepting  his  prop>osition,  but  re- 
quiring more  definite  terms.  To  this  I  af- 
fixed the  admiral's  signature,  and  then 
sealed  and  directed  it.  As  we  had  hoped, 
on  the  next  day,  Sir  John  handed  to  Pet- 
trell a  letter  in  answer  to  the  one  he  had  re- 
ceived the  previous  day,  and  directed  him 
to  deliver  it  to  the  officer  of  whom  he  had 
received  the  note.  The  letter  I  had  written 
was  delivered,  and  the  admiral's  own  letter 
was  retained  by  us!  You  will  find  it  in  the 
package.    It  is  numbered  '  two! '  " 

"  Let's  see  it,"  faintly  uttered  Doctor 
Holland. 

It  was  taken  from  the  package,  and  read 
as  follows: — 

"  H.  B.  M.  Ship  "  Medusa." 

"  Monsieur : — I  received  from  you  a 

proposition  offering  me  a  bribe  for  the  safe 
and  quiet  delivery  into  your  hands  of  my 
ship.  I  am  an  Englishman!  That  should 
be  answer  enough;  but  if  you  will  come 
forth  on  your  errand,  I  will  give  you  a  more 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


n 


Etibstantial  answer  in  the  shape  of  powder 
and  cold  iron. 

'*  With  the  utmost  contempt,  I  am  your 
enemy,  John  Laxdford,  Bart." 

"The  old  admiral  himself  I  "  cried  Sir 
William,  as  his  eyes  filled  with  tears, 

"  O  God  I  "  murmured  Alfred,  "  and  that 
K?ttcr  was  kept  back,  and  another,  a  base 
forgery,  sent  in  its  place  1  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Holland,  "  but  read  on." 

Sir  William  wiped  his  eyes,  and  then  he 
read  again: — 

"  After  this  we  managed  to  get  six  more 
letters  from  the  Frenchman,  all  of  them  di- 
rected to  the  admiral,  but  not  one  of  which 
he  ever  saw  until  they  were  produced 
against  him  as  evidence  of  his  guilt.  Pet- 
trell  framed  rough  drafts  for  the  answers, 
which  you  will  find  in  the  package,  in  his 
own  uncouth  hand.  These  I  copied,  ad- 
dressed to  the  French  commander,  always 
signing  Sir  John's  name.  The  Frenchman 
secured  his  letters  in  a  small  black  box,  not 
larger  than  a  pipe-bowl,  which  he  fastened 
to  one  corner  of  the  buoy,  where  Pettrell 
took  it  when  he  rowed  around  in  the  morn- 
ing to  square  the  yards,  and  where  ho  al.so 
left  the  answer  we  had  prepared  —  tlio 
Frenchman,  you  understand,  always  com- 
ing at  night. 

"At  length  matters  were  all  arranged, 
and  the  night  was  set  on  which  the  ship 
was  to  be  surrendered,  and  yet  we  were  not 
suspected,  nor  did  the  Frenchman  suspect 
that  Marrok  Pettrell  wias  not  a  bona-fide 
agent  of  the  admiral.  We  had  received 
notes  of  hand,  or  rather  drafts  on  a  heavy 
bank  in  Toulon,  for  the  hundixd  thousand 
pounds,  which  were  to  be  cashed  as  soon  as 
presented,  all  payable  to  Sir  John  Landford. 
By  means  of  our  French  agent  we  obtained 
a  large  quantity  of  a  very  powerful  sedative 
— a  sort  of  quintessent  extract  of  henbane 
and  opium— which  we  mixed  with  the  tea 
of  the  ship's  company,  and  which  we  also 
contrived  to  get  into  the  drink  of  the  offi- 
cers.   Thus  were  all  hands  under  conttt>l. 

"  At  midnight  the  enemy  came  ofif  in 
boats.  Pettrell  and  myself  were  on  deck; 
but  aU  tho  rest  of  the  wntch  were  sound 


asleep.  Of  course  the  ship  was  taken  almost 
without  a  blow.  Our  men  were  nearly  all 
too  stupid  to  make  any  resistance.  As  soon 
as  Sir  John  came  out  from  his  cabin,  I 
rushed  in  and  placed  all  the  letters  we  had 
received  from  the  French,  together  with  the 
d'^fts,  in  a  small  till  in  one  of  his  chests. 
As  they  were  all  addressed  to  the  admiral, 
of  course  they  had  an  overwhelming  weight 
in  evidence,  as  the  contents  of  our  own  for- 
geries were  all  alluded  to  in  them.  Thi.>* 
consummated  our  plan.  We  were  all  taken 
prisoners;  but  the  Frenchmen  must  have 
been  surprised  when  Sir  John  indignanily 
refused  their  money,  and  at  the  same  time 
disclaimed  all  knowledge  of  the  affair. 
However,  they  attributed  it  to  his  fear  of 
detection. 

"  At  length  the  affair  leaked  out,  and  our 
whole  crew  were  exchanged  and  carried 
home  to  England,  where  Sir  John  was  tried. 
The  letters  were  found  in  his  chest,  and 
Pettrell  and  myself  sw  ore  to  having  can-ied 
them  to  him  from  the  French.  I  could  at 
that  time  see  what  no  one  el.se  seemed  to 
notice  -and  that  was,  that  the  terrible  blow 
had  turned  the  ill-fated  admiral's  brain;  and 
beneath  the  effects  of  that  mental  derange- 
ment he  suffered  all  without  much  attempt 
at  defence. 

"  As  soon  as  Sir  John  was  hanged,  Pet- 
trell and  mj^self  hastened  off  to  Gloucester, 
and  by  means  of  a  forged  order  from  your 
father,  we  obtained  pos.session  of  you— Pet- 
trell having  sworn  that  you,  too,  should  be 
brought  to  the  gallows,  to  make  up  the  sura 
of  his  revenge. 

"  What  more  can  I  tell  you  that  you  do 
not  already  know  ?  You  were  then  one 
year  old,  and  your  mother  had  already  been 
laid  in  her  grave.  Three  years  after  that, 
while  we  were  engaged  in  smuggling,  our 
vessel  was  cast  away  on  Little  Devon  Head, 
and  you  were  lost  to  us  for  several  years. 
How  you  were  at  length  found  you  know. 

"  And  now,  God  forgive  me  for  the  deed 
I  ho|>ed  to  consummate.  I  hope  this  will 
Horve  you.  You  need  no  advice  from  roe» 
and  I  will  give  none.  I  can  only  swear 
most  solemnly,  before  that  God  whose  laws 


72        THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,  THE,  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


I  have  so  often  outraged,  that  every  word  I 
have  here  written  is  true  I 

"  Mark  Beonkon." 

As  Sir  William  ceased  reading,  the  paper 
dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he  sank  back  in 
hia  great  chair.  The  surgeon  started  up  and 
flew  to  and  fro  across  the  room  like  a  crazy 
man.  Alfred  put  forth  his  hand  and  laid  it 
upon  the  baronet's  arm,  and  in  a  low  whis- 
per he  uttered: — 

"  Was  not  my  father  innocent  ?  " 

"  TnnocentI  "  repeated  the  baronet,  start- 
ing up  from  his  seat,  and  then  sinking  back 
again.  "  Oh,  that  fearful  thought  has  never 
ceased  to  haunt  me.  A  dark  mystery  always 
hung  over  that  fatal  scene  in  the  closing  life 
of  my  best  friend.  Everything  seemed 
against  him,  and  I  was  forced  to  believe  him 
guilty;  yet  my  soul,  ray  heart,  was  never 
reconciled  to  the  judgment.  Innocent  I 
Oh,  poor  Sir  John!  " 

Holland  stopped  suddenly  in  his  walk  and 
seized  the  letter  which  Sir  John  had  written 
to  the  Frenchman,  and  which  the  conspira- 
tors had  kept  back. 

"'I  am  an  Englishman!'"  he  read. 
'*  Oh,  how  like  the  old  admiral.  '  That 
should  be  answer  enough!'  O  Sir  John! 
'  If  you  will  come  forth  on  your  errand,  I 
will  give  you  a  more  substantial  answer  in 
the  shape  of  powder  and  cold  iron! '  What 
a  precious  document  is  this!  '  With  the  ut- 
most contempt,  I  am  your  enemy — John 
Landfokd.'  O  Sir  William,  he  was  inno- 
cent! " 

The  old  baronet  could  only  groan,  and 
clasp  his  hands  in  agony.  The  other  papers 
in  the  package  were  looked  over,  and  they 
were  found  to  be,  as  Bronkon  had  said,  the 
rough  drafts  of  the  letters  which  had  been 
written  to  the  Frenchman  over  the  forged 
signature  of  the  admiral. 

"Was  not  that  a  base  conspiracy?"  ut- 
tered Sir  William,  as  he  held  the  papers  in 
his  hand.  "What  a  noble  soul  did  England 
caet  away  when  that  man  was  so  wrongfully 
put  to  death." 

At  that  moment  a  servant  opened  the  door 
and  announced  that  there  was  a  man  at  the 
door  who  wished  to  see  Alfred. 


"Then  let  him  come  in  here,"  said  the 
baronet.  "  Whatever  interests  Alfred  now 
must  also  interest  me." 

The  old  man  looked  upon  the  youth  as  he 
spoke,  and  the  latter  returned  a  silent  mo- 
tion of  consent. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

CONCLUSION. 

It  was  an  old  man  who  entered  the  room 
— a  man  bent  down  beneath  heavy  burdens 
— "  a  man  of  sorrow  and  a  man  of  grief." 
He  stopped  as  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 
those  who  were  there  assembled,  and  for  a 
moment  his  frame  shook  like  a  frightened 
child. 

"  Alfred!  "  he  at  length  murmured,  "  Al- 
fred, my  boy,  I  have  come  to  see  you  once 
more." 

The  head  of  that  old  man  was  on  the  next 
instant  pillowed  upon  the  youth's  bosom, 
and  Alfred  gently  murmured  the  name  of 
"  Luke  Garronl  " 

"  Oh,  my  more  ,than  father!  "  cried  our 
hero,  as  he  clasped  the  old  light-keeper  more 
fondly  within  his  arms,  "  God  has  sent  you 
back  to  me.  Sir  William,  this  is  now  my 
father." 

The  baronet  had  sprung  to  his  feet,  for  he 
recognized  the  man  from  whose  hands  he 
had  received  his  daughter. 

But  oh,  how  was  Luke  Garron  changed! 
That  stout,  noble  form  was  bent;  that  glossy 
raven  hair  was  all  frosted  like  the  driven 
snow;  those  features,  once  so  full  of  the 
soul's  life,  were  now  in  weeping  for  the 
soul's  decay;  those  darkly  flashing  eyes 
were  sunken,  and  their  light  was  dimmed; 
those  hands,  once  so  strong,  now  trembled 
like  stricken  reeds,  and  he  was  all  bowed 
and  heart-broken. 

"  You  shall  never  leave  me  more,"  ut- 
tered Alfred.  "  Henceforth  our  home  shall 
be  together.  You  protected  me  in  child- 
hood, and  I  will  now  watch  over  you  in  your 
old  age." 

"  Bless  you,  bless  you,  ray  boy;  but  thit 
may  not  be.     My 'stop  here  cannot  be  lon^. 


THE  STORM    CHILDREN;   OR,   THE   LIGHT-KEEPER   OF   THE   CHANNEL. 


rs 


But  where  is  Ella?    Oh,  I  must  see  her 
sweet  face  once  more." 

Ella  was  sent  for,  and  as  she  entered  the 
room  the  first  object  that  met  her  gaze  was 
Alfred,  and  towards  him  she  moved. 

"  No,  no,  Ella,"  said  the  youth,  "  not  to 
me — not  to  me.    Here." 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  Luke's  arm  as  he 
-poke. 

"Ella,"  uttered  the  old  man,  "  do  you 
not  know  me  ?  " 

The  fair  girl  gazed  up  into  his  face,  and 
on  the  next  instant  she  was  upon  his  bosom. 
She  murmured  his  name — she  blessed  him — 
and  she  pressed  her  lips  upon  his  deeply 
furrowed  brow. 

When  Luke  Gkirron  sank  back  upon  the 
large  sofa  that  stood  near  him,  his  storm 
children  were  by  his  side. 

"  Doctor  Holland,"  said  Sir  William, 
'*  this  is  the  old  light-keeper  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  speak.  An  old  friend  of 
mine,  Mr.  Garron,"  added  the  baronet,  tiUTi- 
ing  towards  Luke. 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 
surgeon,  and  a  deadly  pallor  overspread  his 
features.  He  attempted  to  rise,  but  his 
limbs  failed  him,  and  he  sank  back  upon  his 
seat, 

"Are  you  ill?"  anxiously  asked  Ella, 
putting  her  arm  around  Luke's  neck. 

"  No,  my  child,  it  was  only  a  sudden 
weakness.    Ah,  I  have  such  attacks  often." 

A  short  silence  ensued,  during  which  the 
doctor  moved  his  chair  nearer  to  where 
Luke  sat.  At  length  Sir  William  asked  the 
old  light-keeper  where  he  had  been  since  he 
had  left  the  Devon  beacon. 

"  I  have  sought  you  often,"  he  said,  "  but 
could  never  gain  any  tidings  of  you." 

"  AlasI  "  murmured  Luke,  "I  have  had 
no  home  since  that  time.  I  have  been  a 
wanderer  without  destination." 

"But  you  should  have  come  and  seen 
me,"  said  the  affectionate  Ella. 

"  So  I  have  seen  you,  sweet  child.  When 
you  knew  it  not,  I  have  stood  and  watched 
you." 

"  Ah,  I  saw  you  once  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  square," 


"Yes;  I  remember.  I  thought  you  de- 
tected me  then,  and  I  left  my  post." 

"  But  you  will  stay  with  us  now.  Oh,  my 
good  father  will  give  you  a  home." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  William;  "your  wander- 
ings shall  now  have  an  end.  Beneath  my 
roof  you  shall  find  a  home." 

"  No,  no,"  groaned  Luke;  "  it  cannot  be. 
I  wished  to  see  these  children  once  again 
before  I  died;  and  now  I  have  seen  them. 
I  must  go  now." 

He  caught  the  burning  glance  of  Robeil 
Holland,  and  tremblingly  arose  to  his  feet. 

"O  God!  "  he  murmured,  as  be  cla8pe<l 
his  hands  towards  heaven,  help  me  through 
this  trial.  Sir  William,  you  will  not  turn 
poor  Alfred  from  your  doors.  Be  a  father 
to  him.  Bless  him  with  your  love.  Ella — 
Alfred— one  more  kiss.  There,  I  must  go' 
O  God!  I  cannot  bear  this!  My  poor 
heart  is  weaker  than  I  thought.  Alfred! 
Alfred!     God  bless  you  I     Sir  William" 

"Stop,  stop!"  cried  the  old  surgeon, 
springing  from  his  chair,  and  grasping  the 
light-keeper  by  the  arm.  "By  my  souPs 
salvation,  I  know  you  now!  " 

"Know  me!"  gasped  the  weak  old  laaii, 
shrinking  with  terror. 

"Yes,  yes.  Sir  John  Landford.  1  know 
you  well!  " 

"O  God!  Betrayed! — discovered!  — 
ruined!"  fell  from  the  old  man's  lips,  as 
he  sank  back  upon  the  sofa. 

"  No,  no.  Sir  John;  none  here  shall  be- 
tray you,"  exclaimed  Holland. 

Alfred  heard  those  words — he  heard  the 
name  of  his  father — his  brain  reeled,  and 
with  a  dizzy  sensation,  he  fell  across  the  old 
man's  knees.  When  he  came  to  himself 
Jiis  father  had  lifted  him  up,  and  with  a 
bursting  heart  he  found  utterance  for  his 
soul's  thanksgiving. 

It  was  some  time  ere  Sir  William  recov- 
ered from  the  utter  astoni.shment  into  which 
this  wonderful  revelation  had  thrown  him. 

"  You  wonder  at  this.  Sir  William,"  saki 
the  old  surgeon,  as  he  settled   into  his  seat. 

"Wonder?  "  repeated  the  baronet,  gaz- 
ing first  upon  Sir  John,  and  then  upon  the 
doctor.     "It  is  a  miracle!  " 


74         THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


"  Upon  my  soul  I  "  replied  Holland,  "  I  do 
believe  the  hand  of  God  is  in  the  work;  but 
1  can  explain  it  all.  If  you  remember,  you 
grew  sick  at  the  sight  of  Sir  John  hanging 
at  the  yard-arm,  and  ordered  him  cut  down 
sooner  than  might  otherwise  have  been 
done.  When  he  was  tiiken  below  I  saw  a 
twitching  of  one  of  the  muscles  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  mouth.  In  an  instant  the  thought 
struck  me  that  life  was  not  extinct.  I  had 
him  carried  to  my  room,  and,  having  or- 
dered all  the  attendants  out,  I  locked  the 
door,  and  then  commenced  operations  upon 
the  body.    Life  was  there,  and  in  half  an 


the  waxen  figure  closely  up  in  a  hammock, 
putting  in  lead  enough  to  make  it  as  heavy 
as  a  dead  body  would  be,  and  Sir  John  was 
carried  on  shore  in  the  chest.  No  one 
thought  of  questioning  the  contents  of  the 
hammock,  for  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the  hu- 
man form;  and  when  it  sank  beneath  the 
bosom  of  the  closing  waters,  all,  save  my- 
self and  steward,  thought  that  the  cold 
corpse  of  Sir  John  was  there.  O  Sir  Wi^ 
Ham,  when  I  saw  you  weeping  there,  I 
wished  that  you  could  have  known  as  much 
as  I  did;  but  I  dared  not  reveal  to  you  the 
secret.     From  that  time  till  this  evening  I 


A  8TARTLLNG  DENOUEMENT. 


hour  Sir  John  sat  up  and  spoke.  He  prayed 
for  me  to  save  him,  and  I  resolved  to  do  it; 
but  I  first  ma^le  him  promise  that  he  would 
never  reveal  himself,  even  to  his  own  child. 
His  own  safety  as  well  as  mine,  required 
that;  for  were  he  to  be  found,  he  would 
again  be  hanged.  I  hastened  on  shore  and 
bought  a  waxen  figure  of  old  Dame  Rollins. 
This  I  carried  off  in  a  large  chest.  I  was 
forced  to  let  my  steward  into  the  secret;  but 
I  was  not  afraid  to  trust  him.     We  sewed 


have  seen  nothing  of  the  man  I  saved, 
though  when  you  first  told  me  of  Luke  Gar- 
ron,  I  suspected  the  truth." 

"  You  will  not  betray  me  ?  "  cried  Sip 
John,  as  Doctor  Holland  concluded.  "  Let 
me  go.     I  will  now  seek  some" 

"  Stop,  my  old  friend,"  said  Sir  William^ 
starting  forward  to  the  table.  "  O  God  is 
surely  here.  His  finger  marks  every  pags 
of  life!     Sir  John,  you  are  innocent." 

'*  Goil  knows  Lath  I  " 


THE  STORM   CHILDREN;   OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


"  Yes,  j-ea,  and  we  know  it.  The  world 
shall  know  it.  Here — here,  in  three  p.'vpers, 
have  we  your  full  acquittal.  Sit  down,  sit 
down.  Sir  John.' 

The  old  ni;in  sank  back  to  his  seat,  and 
then  Sir  "NVilliam  commenced  to  read  the 
confession  of  Mark  Bronkon,  and  while  he 
read,  sir  John  Landford  started  back  to  life. 
His  bosom  heaved,  his  dark  eyes  sparkled 
with  a  flowing  fire,  his  muscles  worked  with 
increasing  power;  and  when  the  story  was 
told,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  lifted  his 
hands  high  above  his  head.  His  form  was 
straight,  and  his  head  once  more  erect.  A 
full  minute  he  stood  thus,  and  then,  as  the 
tears  rolled  in  torrents  down  his  cheeks,  he 
sank  upon  his  knees,  and  the  long  pent-up 
prayer  of  his  soul  burst  forth  in  glowing, 
burning  words. 

When  he  once  more  drew  Alfred  to  his 
bosom,  he  told  of  the  trials  he  had  under- 
gone since  he  fled  from  Portsmouth,  where 
the  doctor  had  set  him  free.  He  had  found 
the  light-house  without  a  keeper,  and  he  ob- 
tained the  situation.  He  had  learned  that 
Pettrell  had  got  possession  of  his  child,  but 
he  dared  not  seek  for  it.  When,  three  years 
afterwards,  Alfred  was  washed  on  shore, 
the  light-keeper  knew  him;  and  when  the 
little  fellow  prattled  of  Marrok  Pettrell,  the 
fact  was  beyond  a  doubt. 

The  old  man  told  him  how  life  opened  its 
joys  to  him  again  as  he  reared  his  fond  child, 
and  as  that  child  learned  to  love  him.  He 
told  of  the  coming  of  Pettrell,  and  his  frame 
shook  with  a  fearful  tremor  as  he  reverted 
to  that  scene.  He  dared  not  claim  his  own 
child  as  flesh  of  his  flesh,  for  that  would 
have  doomed  him  to  the  fearful,  terrible 
death  he  had  once  escaped,  an  1  he  was 
forced  to  see  the  object  of  his  heart's  devo- 
tion lorn  from  him. 

'.  '.13  old  man's  lieart  bled  afresh  as  he  told 
of  that  parting,  an  1  his  friends  gathered 
aboi  I  hiai  to  .soothe  and  comfort  him.  Soon 
the  clou  J  passed  away,  and  Sir  John  opened 
hi.^  eyes  upon  the  b.'.ss  of  tin;  present  hour. 
Brent  and  Holland  were  bending  fondly 
over  him.  while  A.i.-c  I  and  Ella  were  cling- 
ing to  his  knees.     The  slorj'  of  his  grief  bad 


been  told,  and  now  his  words  were  only 
thanks  and  blessings. 

It  was  evening  again,  and  the  scene  in 
again  in  the  large  drawing-room  of  Sir  Will- 
iam IJrent.  But  what  a  brilliant  assemblage 
is  there.  The  lords  of  the  admiralty  are  there, 
and  some  of  old  England's  bravest,  battle- 
scarred  heroes  are  there,  too.  The  package 
which  Bronkon  had  given  Alfred  had  been 
read  by  the  king,  and  Marrok  Pettrell  had 
confessed  it  all  true,  though  at  the  time  he 
dreamed  not  that  his  victim  lived.  Yet  the 
pirate  captain  had  made  the  confession,  and 
he  had  since  paid  the  penalty  of  his  crime* 
with  his  life. 

Sir  John  Landford  was  again  a  man  among 
men.  Upon  his  shoulders  he  bore  the  broad 
epaulets  of  a  full  admiral,  and  upon  his  bos- 
om sparkled  the  insignia  of  the  baronet. 

Thex-e  had  just  been  feasting  and  joy  upon 
the  happy  reunion  of  a  noble  Briton  with 
his  noble  country;  but  now  the  voice  of  rev- 
elry is  hushed.  Sir  John  arose  and  stepped 
forth  to  where  sat  his  son  by  the  side  of 
Sir  William's  daughter. 

"  Alfred— Ella,"  he  said,  as  he  took  them 
both  by  the  hand,  "  Sir  William  has  granted 
me  this  happy  privilege.  1  took  you  both  to 
my  bosom  when  you  were  helpless  children, 
and  I  saw  the  vines  of  your  young  heart '• 
affection  twine  softly,  tenderly  about  each 
other.  You  were  once  given  to  me  in  the 
midst  of  storm  and  tempest,  and  then  you 
were  lost  to  me  when  the  heaven  was  black 
in  night.  But  now — now  heaven  has  opened 
the  light  of  full  day  upon  us — and  my  Storm 
CuiLDUEN  are  mine  once  more.  Alfred, 
you  remember  that  dark  night  when  we  sat 
together  in  the  old  beacon?  Then  I  told 
you  never  to  turn  aside  from  the  true  path 
of  life.  Nobly  have  you  met  the  storms  that 
have  beset  your  way,  and  now  you  see  how 
signally  your  faithful  virtue  has  been 
blessed.  Ella,  you  have  found  another  fath- 
er, but  our  laws  provide  that  you  may  yet 
have  two  fathers.  This  act  makes  you  my 
daughter  still.  There,  she  is  yours,  Al- 
fred; and,  Ella,  1  know  you  will  take  my 
son  for  your  own  with  your  whole  ."ioul." 

As  Sir  John   spoke,  he   laid  Ella's  hand 


76 


THE  STORM  CHILDREN;  OR,   THE  LIGHT-KEEPER  OF  THE  CHANNEL. 


within  that  of  Alfred,  and  then  he  turned 
away  to  wipe  the  happy  tears  from  liis  face. 

Sir  William  stepped  forward  and  laid  his 
hands  upon  the  hea:ls  of  Alfred  and  Ella. 

"  Oh,''  he  murmured,  as  he  met  the  joy- 
ful look.s  of  those  two  re-united  beings, 
*'  how  little  can  they  know  of  true  joy  who 


have  no  blessing  to  impart  to  those  about 
them.  Surely  there  is  more  real  pleasure  in 
making  some  fellow  creature  happy,  than 
mere  self  can  ever  find  in  the  sensual  wealth 
of  earth.  Oh,  give  me  ever  the  smiles  of 
happy  friends  about  me,  and  I  can  ask  no 
more." 


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A  vivid  story,  unrivaled  in  plot  and  character ;  thriUing  in  marvelous  adventurt*. 

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No.  8.    Marion's  Brigade,  or  The  Light  Dragoons. 

A  Tale  of  the  Revolution.     BY   DR.   J.    H.   ROBINSON. 

^Among  the  many  tales  which  our  Revolutimiary  stfuggles  have  drawn  from  the  pens  of  noted  Uetonane  aod  9t»>4^»'*. 
perhaps  none  excel  this  one  from  the  jieti  of  Dr.  Robinson.  ^^  a^mnaoB  aoa  marf<Mul»%, 

No.  4.    Bessie  Baine,  or  The  Mormon's  Victim. 

A  Tale  of  Utah.       BY   M.   QUAD,   OF   THE  DETROIT  FPEE  PRESS 

iJri^d  K  ?e1flwe  almTind^resulU.^"""''''  ^"  °"  «^*''^"^'''"-^^  ^r.  Lewis  has  shown  up  -h.  wh^ole  system  of  ll«aon- 

No.  5.    The  Red  Revenger,  or  The  Pirate  King  of  the  Floridas. 

A  T.A.LE  OF  the  Gulf  and  its  Islands.       BY    NED    BUNTLINE. 

»JIjl!!r'i'"^.^*J'  °"^  ^^  f?."!?''*  ";»">■  '?^<:  and  romanric  phases  of  life  at  a  period  when  deadly  oonffia  was  mMD. 
HMied  between  the  Spaniards  of  Cuba  and  the  desperate  pirates  who  infested  the  seas  in  its  vicinity  sometl^oen^a^ 

Ho.  6.    Orlando  Chester,  or  The  Young  Hnnter  of  Virginia. 

A  Story  of  Colonial  Times.      BY   SYL\'AXUS   COBB,  Jr. 

nSln't^t.'  ""^  "^  "'^  happiest  efforts  of  the  author,  who  has  wrought  out  ^  series  of  domestic  scenes  in  private  Mkj^    ! 

No.  7.    The  Secret-Service  Ship,  or  The  Fall  of  San  Juan  d'UIloa. 

A  Romance  of  the  Mexican  War.      BY   CAPT.   CHARLES    E.   AVERILL. 

The  author  enjoyed  extraordinar>-  facilities  for  gaining  the  actual  knowledge  necessan-  to  the  pn 
•tory ;  and  hence  us  truthfulness  and  excellence. 

No.  8.    Adyentnres  in  the  Pacific,  or  In  Chase  of  a  Wife. 

BY  COL.   ISAAC   H.    FOLGER. 

This  sea  story  will  attract  niuch  attention  from  residents  of  the  Cape,  and  nianv  old  whaling  c 
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No.  0.    lyan  the  Serf,  or  The  Russian  and  Circassian. 

A  Tale  of  Russia,  Turkey,  and  Circassia.      BY  AUSTIN   C.  BURDICK. 

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S9*  10.    The  Scout,  or  The  Sharpshooters  of  the  Revolutiou. 

A  Story  of  our  Revolutionary  Struggle.      BY  MAJOR  BEN.  PERLS- 
POORE. 

^  Iwt^^Sr^''^'"''""*^  st»'«ggJe  is  one  ot  much  interest,  and  narrates  with  vivid,  lifelike  ffffect.  some  ot  tlie  aceoc; 

No.  11.    Daniel  Boone,  or  The  Pioneers  of  Kentucky. 

An  Hi.storicai.    Romance  of  Early  ^Vestern  Life.    BY  DR.  J.  H.  ROB- 
INSON". 

The  terrible  experiences  of  the  early  Western  settlers,  with  their  perils  and  privations,  their  Struggles  and  their  triumphs, 
afford  a  vivid  field  for  the  writer,  who  has  lent  himself  to  the  task  witli  a  rich  result.  * 

No.  12.    The  King  of  the  Sea. 

A  Tale  of  the  Fearless  and  Tree.    BY  NED  BUITTLINE. 

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are  replete  with  interest  and  individuality.  ' 

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A  Tale  of  Love  and  Cnn  alry.    BY  XED  BUNTLINE. 

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No.  14.    The  Heart's  Secret,  or  The  Fortunes  of  a  Soldier. 

A  Talk  of  Love  axd  the  Lotv  Latitudes.    BY  LIEUTENANT  MURRAY. 

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No.  15.    The  Storm  Children,  or  The  Light-Keener  of  the  Channel. 

A  Story  of  Land  am)  .Sea  Advexti  re.     BY   SY'LA'ANI\'^  COBB,  JR. 

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roents  cany  the  reader  into  the  Eastern  worid.     It  is  a  fine  portiaiture  of  human  character.  ' 

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